


String Theory

by PepperPrints



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Age Difference, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 22:55:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4979821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperPrints/pseuds/PepperPrints
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The singularity is closed and Central City is saved, but Cisco can't stop dreaming. In the aftermath of his death, Eobard Thawne is a time paradox: a person who must exist but simultaneously cannot. Trapped between realms of reality, he reaches out Cisco as he sleeps. Cisco can reach back -- but it requires using a power that he doesn't yet understand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	String Theory

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the CW Flash Big Bang 2015, and written prior to the season two premier. As a result, a lot of this is negated by canon, but is hopefully enjoyable regardless!
> 
> Warnings for references to character death (CW and comic canon), and age difference.
> 
>  
> 
> [Artist link!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4981012)

The nightmares start after Barry closes the singularity.

 

It shouldn’t surprise anyone. After seeing the whole world nearly get torn apart, there’s enough nightmare fuel left over to last a lifetime. As a result, Cisco hasn’t gotten a proper night’s sleep in days now, and it’s starting to show. It isn’t drastic, since he is getting through the night (albeit fitfully), but the lack of rest is doing little to help his steadily declining state of mind.

 

Whenever he sleeps, he dreams. He only remembers about half of them, and they’re more memories than they are fantasy -- which somehow makes them even more intimidating. He sees the singularity, he sees Ronnie locked away within the pipeline and Caitlin’s tears, he sees Barry racing out into certain death, he sees Dr. Wells telling him he’s extraordinary and that he can do something no one else can.

 

He sees Eobard Thawne, asking him for help before he shatters into pieces.

 

But tonight there’s something different. Tonight, no memories replay with his eyes closed. Instead, he’s lost in the dark, half aware and foggy, and someone is calling out for him.

 

“Cisco. Help me.”

 

The dream is thick and smothering around him. That plea is the one clear thing in the dark, but Cisco still can't place its origin. Sleep makes his mind sluggish, slow to process, and he knows he recognizes that voice – those words – but he cannot put a name to it. What he can name, however, is the dread that swells in his chest at the sound of it. It's almost panic, how some raw instinct that wants him to run take over, but his limbs don't move. He's weighed down by the heavy press of sleep, stuck frozen still. His chest feels tight, and he's caged inside of himself, surrounded by the dark and the demands that repeat themselves.

 

“Cisco,” is spoken again, urgent and rasping, and something pulls at him in from the depths. There's no actual contact, no physical grip of hands on his clothes, but the voice itself seems to force him forward – dragging him deeper into the dream. “Help me, Cisco –“

 

The plea seems so desperate, so helpless, so why does it spark so much fear in him? He feels like he knows the answer, but he cannot reach it here. All he can make sense of is how the very core of him wants as far away from this as possible.

 

He's dreaming; he can vaguely associate that much, but he cannot shake out of it.

 

Wake up, he thinks to himself, wake up wake up--

 

“Cisco, help me--”

 

Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

 

“Don't let me disappear, Cisco.”

 

What?

 

Cisco jerks awake. His eyes snap open to an empty room, hair tousled and his shirt damp with sweat. Frantically whipping his head around, he searches the space around him. What woke him was the sound of his phone, buzzing rapidly at his bedside table. Collecting it with an unsteady hand, he peers at the name on the display.

 

The apartment entry system: Dante is at his door.

 

Cisco groans. Right; that was today -- and he slept in. He’ll never hear the end of it.

 

“Hello,” Cisco greets reluctantly, and he can hear the smile in Dante’s voice.

 

“Did I interrupt your beauty sleep, little brother?” he asks lightheartedly, and Cisco exhales through his nose.

 

“Yeah, I know; I’m late. I’ll buzz you up,” he mutters, rising out of bed with a squirm and a stretch, and he doesn’t disconnect fast enough to cut off one more jab.

 

“Nah, might as well let you enjoy it while you can; mom won’t ever let you sleep past nine once you’re under her roof again.”

 

Cisco punches him in, then hangs up with a small scowl, letting his phone drop on the bedside table with a sigh. It’s embarrassing enough to think about this without Dante rubbing it in. But, the unfortunate truth is, there isn’t much that Cisco could do about it. Now that S. T. A. R. Labs is minus one genius physicist running the show…

 

Cisco shivers, rubbing his hand tiredly over his face.

 

Well. Cisco doesn’t like to think about that too much. Essentially, no one is signing any paychecks, and no one is looking to hire someone whose resume consists of the Lab responsible for leaving a hole in Central City. Cisco’s savings are beginning to dwindle away to nothing, and with his lease coming up… the idea of signing himself into another twelve month contract without an ounce of steady income just doesn’t seem to be the smartest move.

 

So, there’s this temporary solution: packing up his life into several overstuffed boxes, and moving back home for awhile.

 

Just for awhile. Just until he gets back on his feet. Just until they figure out what’s happening with the Labs. Dante may be teasing him, but he’s also kind enough to come help him move. It’s smokescreen, really; maybe Dante isn’t sure how else to treat him, if not by giving him hell.

 

Halfway through changing his clothes, his phone begins to ring again. “Seriously,” Cisco mutters in disbelief, muffled by his shirt being tugged over his head. He yanks it down the rest of the way, and snatches his phone without bothering to look twice.

 

“Come on, bro. I buzzed you in already. You have to wait for the click, then--”

 

But Cisco can’t bring himself to continue berating him. Instead of Dante’s voice, the other end of the line is faint, clicking static, and something half muffled in between.

 

“Dante?” Cisco asks skeptically, and suddenly the static surges. Wincing, Cisco lowers the phone from his ear, and when he glances down, the display doesn’t recognize the number. But, whoever it is on the other side must recognize him, because of what he hears between the static:

 

“... s-- co.”

 

Is that--

 

Despite the grating sound, Cisco pulls the phone in close again. “Hello?” he tries again, louder now, as if to be heard over the storm of static in between.

 

But there’s nothing answering him; fractured noises barely come together, but somehow he’s positive it’s the sound of his name.

 

There’s a knock at his door, and it feels so sudden that Cisco fumbles with his phone. He loses the call -- whatever it is -- and he can’t compose himself fast enough for when Dante steps inside.

 

“...what’s that look for?” Dante looks him up and down, then smirks a bit. “Did I interrupt something?”

 

“Funny,” Cisco dryly replies. He glances at his phone, trying to find some rational explanation. Wrong numbers happen all the time… Cisco tells himself so, but he doesn’t actively believe it. “It’s nothing. Just not awake yet, I guess; I had a weird night.”

 

 _Weird dream_ , almost passes his lips, but he bites it down before it comes. He chokes it down, watching Dante come inside and casually survey his hollowed out living space. Cisco watches him, and he wonders.

 

He could tell Dante; he’s his brother and that’s what brothers are supposed to do…

 

...but that has never been true for their relationship.

 

“With the stuff you’re into, little brother,” Dante says slyly. “Everything is weird.”

 

Cisco smiles, though it feels a little forced, and he accept the nudge of an elbow to his abdomen with only a mild wince.

 

“Come on, let’s get you home,” Dante declares, with enthusiasm Cisco cannot share.

 

It doesn’t feel like going home. That kind of solace, for him, is associated with another place entirely.

 

A place that he has a very real risk of losing.

 

\--

 

Despite the sizable pay he gets -- used to get from -- S. T. A. R. Labs, Cisco has always kept a simple apartment. He never feels the need to upgrade to anything really elaborate. Even so, his old room in his parents’ house feels like a shoebox in comparison… especially now that it’s half full of boxes needing to be unloaded.

 

Dante is doing his fair share; it’s honestly more than Cisco expects him to do. It almost makes him feel a little lazy by comparison when he takes a pause to answer his phone. He would have put it off, but when it’s Barry, not picking up can sometimes lead someone to expect the worst.

 

After getting kidnapped once, Cisco can understand the concern. Barry has saved him… how many times? Cisco can’t even count. Barry is always there for him, even now, and it shows in the concern that bleeds into his voice.

 

“Are you doing okay, though?” Barry asks again, after the initial pleasantries are done with. He’s more firm about it this time; trying to delicately pry beneath the surface. “I mean. I know… a lot’s going on lately.”

 

Cisco feels his stomach twist uneasily. No one likes to say it in certain terms lately; it’s as if they all feel wary of stepping on some kind of landmine. He knows what Barry means, and it’s not ill placed… especially when Cisco hasn’t been sleeping.

 

He opens his mouth, debating whether he should just say so, and then closes it again as his eyes drift over to Dante, who meets his gaze with a grin.

 

“Is that Barry?” Dante asks, and when Cisco nods, his smile spreads. “Tell him to get over here and make himself useful.”

 

Cisco doesn’t need to, since Dante speaks loud enough to be heard over the phone, and Barry laughs.

 

“You know,” Barry says lightly. “I could come over and it’d be done in like. Two minutes. Tops.”

 

Cisco chuckles slightly, watching as Dante struggles to find which cords go where for Cisco’s television set. He could help, but he does sometimes like to see his brother squirm; teasing goes two ways.

 

“Yeah, well,” Cisco replies. “Not to be ungrateful, but we are still trying to keep who you are under wraps and… I know my mom, and if she sees you zooming around, her gossip will travel from here to Starling City.”

 

Dante makes an agreeing noise as he fumbles behind the screen. He does get it, eventually, with an exasperated groan of relief, and Cisco gives him a thumbs up that’s only half mocking. Dante waves him off, but he does look pleased with himself for his accomplishment… until he tries to turn the tv on, and he gets nothing but static.

 

“Really,” Dante mutters in exasperation, flicking between channels to no avail. “Now what’s the problem…?”

 

Beneath the buzz, before Dante changes one channel to the next, Cisco is almost positive that he hears--...

 

Cisco’s stomach does an unpleasant drop, and he realizes he hasn’t been listening to a single word Barry is saying.

 

“Um, can I call you back?” he asks, and with Barry’s approval, he disconnects and tucks his phone back into his pocket.

 

“I’ll figure this out,” he tells Dante, and he’s the one disguising himself under mockery for once. “Let me take over before you break something.”

 

Dante scoffs, giving his shoulder a playful shove as he exits, and the moment he’s alone, Cisco’s smugness immediately fades. He rushes over to the tv, crouching in front of it, and he turns the volume up.

 

It’s static, harsh and grinding, but there’s something there. Just like before.

 

“Come on,” Cisco mutters to himself, clicking between channels on instinct. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, not exactly, but instinctively he feels…

 

“ --isco…”

 

Cisco freezes.

 

Slowly, as if something could reach out from the television and bite him, Cisco raises his hand. Gradually, one by one, his fingers press against the screen, and it’s almost as if he can feel the static thrum beneath his touch.

 

Then, sudden and clear, as if the voice is in the room with him, Cisco hears the plea repeat itself:

 

“Help me.”

 

Withdrawing as if scalded, Cisco fumbles backward. He loses balance, barely catching himself before he hits the floor.

 

The static is gone; replaced by some dry commercial reel between whatever channel he landed on.

 

But that voice won’t leave him.

 

The same plea, the same tone of voice – the same thing Cisco heard, right before _he_ vanished from existence.

 

Harrison Wells. Eobard Thawne. The Man in Yellow.

 

\--

 

It might just be a dream.

 

Cisco tries to repeat that to himself as he loads his shopping cart with groceries. This may be nothing. It might be absolutely nothing more than a very reasonable reaction to a very traumatizing experience. He watched a wormhole break out of the sky, saw the universe nearly eat itself, and they barely made it out alive. He saw himself die, over and over, and the man who killed him had been someone he defended, someone who he trusted with his life, someone who he--

 

Cisco cuts that thought short. Stupid.

 

His hand wavers a little bit as he idly tucks his hair back behind his ear, putting on his headphones as if that will help quiet his racing thoughts. It’s a nice thought, but music only does so much. Even so, he gives it a shot, choosing something upbeat to help his mood, and he taps his fingers on the handle of the cart to the tune.

 

He should probably be more cautious about his shopping, since his aforementioned murder mentor is no longer writing him a paycheck. Caitlin is presently trying to decode the legalities of S. T. A. R. labs, and if they’d be able to save any of it; it’s apparently been hard to try to figure out the appropriate laws for when your boss turns out to be a time traveling super villain.

 

Who would have thought.

 

Cisco leans one elbow on the cart, going through his phone to adjust his volume, then check his bank balance. He’s actually quite careful with his money; indulgent as he can be at times, he knows how to budget. Growing up without much to spare does that to a person. Nothing is drying up yet, so there’s no cause for panic, but unless something gets fixed with the Labs soon…

 

Frowning, Cisco taps at his phone. It’s suddenly unresponsive, and his music skips and jumps. Cisco sighs and his shoulders slump. Speaking of expenses… a new phone would be an extra pain. When it rains, it pours.

 

“Come on,” Cisco mutters, groaning when it won’t even restart. “What’s going on?”

 

The screen darkens, then flickers, then distorts, vibrating in his palm as if there’s a call.

 

But as quickly as it comes, there’s nothing. Cisco stares, carefully sliding through apps, and everything is perfectly in line again… except his music, which skips like an old record, rather than an mp3. The song jumps and lyrics skip together:

 

_It’s a risk to even -- this is trouble, yeah this is trouble -- I’m scared -- if-- gonna break before the night will end -- I’m scared -- we don’t wanna die--_

 

Cisco goes very still. Thinking of empty phone calls and static on his television screen.

 

_I’m scared -- we don’t wanna die -- we don’t wanna die alone--_

 

Cisco yanks his headphones out, finding himself short of breath, and suddenly money seems like the least of his problems.

 

It might just be a dream, but the chances of that are seeming less and less likely as time goes on.

 

Especially now that he’s seeing things while he’s wide awake.

 

Slowly, Cisco raises one earbud back into place, and the chorus plays in full:

 

_I’m scared, but if my heart’s gonna break before the night will end; I said, ooh, ooh we’re in danger..._

 

Cisco tries to shake himself, but he can’t. He can’t believe he’s becoming so paranoid. Phones freak out all the time; what’s the big deal? ...but he knows better. He hasn’t turned his tv on again since the first time; he’s wary to try his laptop, and every time his phone rings he jumps instinctively. How is he supposed to avoid something like that? Even if he decides to go live off the grid in some log cabin, living off of the land, he still needs to sleep, and his dreams aren’t safe either.

 

His dreams, in fact, are likely the most vulnerable place out of everything… and he can’t escape his own head.

 

 _Don’t let me disappear,_ Thawne says, as if there is a real risk.

 

Is that what will happen, if he keeps reaching out and Cisco does not respond?

 

_We don’t wanna die alone--_

 

Cisco squints down at the grocery list on his phone, recalculates his budget, and switches out desserts for extra cans of soda.

 

\--

 

Even with extra precautions, there is the unfortunate truth that, despite his efforts, Cisco can't run from this. There is only so much he can do to avoid his own subconscious. He stays up late, drinks an excessive amount of caffeine, and -- after testing it warily for any sign of static -- tries to binge watch something new on television. If he doesn’t sleep, then he doesn’t dream, and then there’s no menace in his head.

 

If he reaches out, he doesn’t doubt for one second that Barry would stay up with him, or that Caitlin would bring Ronnie over for drinks and games -- especially since it’s doubtful that any of them are getting a restful sleep either. That disaster -- that whole night -- is a shared experience; there should be no shortage of people he can speak to, or seek out as a source of comfort.

 

However… instead of that, Cisco keeps this to himself. Cisco is closed lipped and self conscious, sitting by himself with his mom’s leftovers and an oversized soda. Try as he might, no amount of old or new films does enough to ease his mind.

 

There’s still a pile set aside on his DVD shelf; a list he’d been accumulating with deliberate purpose. Every time he notices it, his stomach does an uneasy flop, but at the same time, he can’t convince himself to put them away.

 

_I gotta make you a must-see movie list, pronto._

 

He can’t bring himself to admit how much he wasted his time, how much of himself he gave up in exchange for lies.

 

It's all temporary fixes, because he's only human, and the only thing he accomplishes for all his effort is passing out on the couch instead of in his bed. He denies it to himself for several minutes, convinced he's wide awake, despite how every time he blinks the scene on the television screen jumps dramatically from what he last remembers looking at.

 

Soon enough, his endurance gives out, and he's in the dark again.

 

The dream follows him, and this time it's slightly clearer. He gains more movement in his arms and legs, and he can actually see glimpses in the dark. What he still lacks, however, is the ability to use his voice; words seem absolutely beyond his reach.

 

Which may not have anything to do with the dream, and may have everything to do with his anxiety, because he knows too well what’s coming.

 

“Cisco?”

 

“Oh no.”

 

The words slip out without him realizing. On an almost childish instinct, he tries to slap his hand over his mouth -- but he stops when he realizes the motion would upset the board.

 

He blinks several times, trying to take in the scene in front of him as his surrounding seem to suddenly explode in color. Harrison Wells sits across from him at the break room table, hunched over the carefully laid out chessboard. He’s not dressed in the full black that became the norm after the explosion; instead he’s in his suit, with just an edge of white underneath his jacket.

 

He was dressed like that when Cisco first met him; when he came for an interview on shaky legs and with a nervous laugh in his throat.

 

“Don’t despair so soon, Cisco,” he says, moving to replace one of Cisco’s pieces on the board with his own. “I haven’t got you cornered yet.”

 

Cisco stares, trying to whip his head around. The room around him blurs; details too uneasy to be defined. It’s a dream; that is for certain, but it feels too sharp for that at the same time. Everything around him feels far away, except for Wells, who leans so casually on one elbow as he studies the chess board.

 

“What are you doing?” Cisco dares to ask, feeling suddenly breathless, and Wells only peers up at him briefly.

 

“I’m waiting,” he replies simply, as if it’s no great mystery. “It’s your turn, you realize.”

 

Cisco feels fuzzy as he glances back at the board. Right. The game. The dream makes logic feel far away; his trails of thought too easily distracted and turned away.

 

“Sorry,” he says instinctively. This conversation has happened once before, and Cisco remembers his old reply: “I guess I’m not as sharp as your usual partner.”

 

Wells makes a tsking sound out of the corner of his mouth, one that is distinctly displeased. Hartley is a strange subject for them both, though he’s never quite gotten his head around Wells’ side of it. Cisco has long decided to keep his bitterness between his teeth, but some of it creeps out nonetheless. “Don’t you usually play with Barry now, anyway?” Cisco adds, glancing around the board in consideration.

 

Wells simply shakes his head. “Modesty doesn't suit you, Cisco,” he tells him simply. “You’re too smart for that.”

 

The subtle praise brings a small, soft smile to his lips. He can’t help himself; the reaction comes too easily. It bubbles up warmly in his chest, seeming to cause him to swell pridefully. All his life, he’s never felt a connection on this sort of level: someone who looks at him, and really sees him. Who isn’t impressed because they don’t understand what he does; who is impressed because they _do_ understand, and know the depths of just how much his work really means. It’s more than just praise; it’s praise from someone he admires. Someone who he… well.

 

Cisco’s eyes wander. They follow the idle motion of Wells’ hands, as slender fingers slide along his chess pieces in consideration. He’s too focused on the board to catch Cisco looking, so he indulges himself: studying glimpses of the bare underside of his wrist, or the dip of his throat, granted to him by a few buttons that are undone and released at the end of the workday.

 

If he’s going to lose the game, he’ll take what small victories he can get in the meantime.

 

Cisco grins, tucking loose strands of hair behind his ear, and he leans over the board with renewed enthusiasm.

 

“Yeah, well,” Cisco says, almost bashfully. “You’re probably still gonna beat me.”

 

Wells hums thoughtfully, removing his glasses to peer at them, looking for dust or marks that surely don’t exist. “I don’t mean to discourage you,” he tells him. His voice is soft as he does away with the glasses altogether: folding them and placing them on the table. “You’re capable of so much more than you realize.”

 

Then Cisco pauses, his hand going still halfway to the board. Thawne is looking at him too intently from across the table, eyes too piercing without the thin frames obscuring them.

 

Thawne. The dream weighs down on him, making it hard to process, but that correction comes through, sudden and sickly. That’s right: Thawne.

 

Not Harrison Wells. Not at all. Not ever.

 

“Is that what this is about?” Cisco asks carefully, suddenly too afraid to move, and his stomach twists as Thawne smiles.

 

“I think you know the answer to that already.”

 

In his fingers, he toys with the piece he just recently claimed, and Cisco recognizes the gesture distantly. Thawne tends to have something to occupy his hands; the same way Cisco does himself… always idly keeping something between his fingers or between his lips.

 

“What I’m capable of,” Cisco parrots, and he tries to look around. “I’m not dreaming, am I?”

 

Thawne makes a thoughtful sound, rolling the pawn between his fingers. “That’s up for debate.”

 

A sudden sense of vertigo overwhelms him. Cisco grabs the edge of the table, trying to keep himself grounded, but it does no good. The dream swells around him, impossibly thick, and threatens to swallow them up.

 

“This is bad,” Cisco whines under his breath. “This is very bad.”

 

Thawne chuckles, and as if he can’t help himself, there’s a hum in his voice. “Yeah, this is trouble..” he replies in a singsong voice, and Cisco’s eyes widen.

 

Well, there goes his chances of ever enjoying that song again in his entire lifetime -- if his lifetime actually lasts much longer than this.

 

“No,” he murmurs, trying to push away from the table, but his chair won’t budge. “Oh no…”

 

The warmth that has settled into his chest suddenly feels clammy: like a sickly heat instead of a fond, welcome one. He feels dizzy, and more he tries to take in his surroundings, the more they blur and distort. The space around them begins to bleed into nothing at all; the more he begins to panic, the faster the dream threatens to fall apart.

 

“Cisco.” Thawne’s tone loses its playfulness and turns firm, reprimanding without demeaning. “Calm down. Listen to me. It’s all right.”

 

Oh, it most certainly is not.

 

Cisco wishes that he couldn’t hear him. The tone is still somehow so soothing to him, and despite himself, he wants to take some sort of solace in this. Thawne knows what’s happening here; of course he does -- he always does.

 

“What’s going on?” Cisco blurts weakly. He can’t help himself. Blunt nails scrape against the tabletop, and his heartbeat pounds.

 

Thawne empties his hands, setting the pawn down to reach out for Cisco instead. Cisco flinches, despite himself, and he grips down on the table even harder, as if his own body might betray him and reach back without his mind’s consent.

 

“Relax, Cisco,” he urges firmly. “This is your world; you can control it.”

 

That seems unlikely. Cisco doesn’t feel in control. He shakes his head, nerves overwhelming him. The entire space around them feels bottomless, impossible, and Cisco feels like he might drift away if he loses focus. “No -- I can’t,” he argues hazily. “I don’t know how.”

 

“It’s all right,” Thawne soothes immediately. “What did I tell you about modesty?”

 

Cisco should hold his tongue; he should say nothing, but panic makes his lips loose. “Why are you doing this to me?” he breathes helplessly.

 

The dream around him blurs, full of faded greys and dark corners, but Thawne’s eyes are the sharpest thing Cisco has ever seen.

 

“Because I need your help, Cisco,” Thawne repeats as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “And you need mine… please. Cisco, help me.”

 

That hits harder than Cisco anticipates. His stomach twists and he finds he can’t deny it. Thawne knows what he is, he knows what he’s becoming… he’s here, offering to help him, the same way he helped Barry…

 

Except not at all. He hadn’t helped Barry; he used him. he used all of them.

 

It’s almost worth laughing at. Cisco knows his worth to Thawne; he’s a pawn ready for sacrifice… unless he can make one more useful move. Thawne has set one chess piece down on the table, and now he reaches for another: one made of flesh and blood.

 

“You died,” Cisco barely whispers. “You can’t be real.”

 

He extends his hand further across the table, open and entreating -- offering so much with a single gesture. “Cisco,” is spoken almost softly this time, deceptively so, but there's an undercurrent to it which feels far too biting. “Don't be afraid -- don’t run.”

 

The plea has the opposite effect entirely

 

Cisco shoves back from the table, startling himself awake, and the sharp gasp that fills his lungs leaves him feeling dizzy. Short of breath, he raises a shaky hand to brush aside his hair, clearing his vision as his gaze scans the room. It’s morning now, sunshine drifting through the blinds and casting shadows across the room. It's the dream hanging on him still, he's certain, but for some reason he doesn't feel alone.

 

The nagging sensation follows him, like eyes digging into the back of his head, and it prickles up his spine.

 

_Don’t be afraid, Cisco._

 

But he is. He’s so afraid that his heart seems to leap into his throat -- and last night’s late dinner almost accompanies it. He throws his covers off and runs into the bathroom, stumbling along the way. Everything stays in his stomach, but to be safe he stays hunched over the sink and heaves several slow, shuddering breaths. When he at last levels himself out, he peers up at his reflection.

 

Suddenly, he’s struck with the strange sensation that he doesn’t know what he’s looking at. Himself, obviously, but what is happening to him? What is he becoming?

 

A hero, apparently; someone with a great and honorable destiny -- if that hadn’t also been a lie.

 

He laughs despite himself, shaky and shrill, and turns the tap on to splash water on his face. Maybe it’s one last game, one more falsehood for some alternative gain, but he has no way of knowing. What reason would Thawne have to be dishonest or pretend about something like that?

 

Cisco asks that question too much, when he thinks about the past, about movie nights and heart-to-hearts. It eats at him, twists him up, and he can’t help himself.

 

He wants at least one thing out of it all to end up being true.

 

Cisco shakes himself. Is this even real in the first place? Eobard Thawne is dead; they all watched him die…

 

Cisco leans over the sink again at the memory, heaving -- but nothing comes. Another false alarm. He inhales shakily, and he dries his face with unsteady hands.

 

In the next room, his phone starts to ring, and Cisco’s insides feel like ice.

 

Tentatively, he steps out of the bathroom, and peers over at his phone. The number on display isn’t one he knows, and he’s afraid of what he’ll hear when he picks up.

 

More static? More fractured pleas from a man who should be dead?

 

He won’t run. Cisco steadies himself, takes in a deep breath, and he answers with hesitation in his voice.

 

“Hello?” he greets tentatively, and instead of what he dreads, it’s the very warm voice of the woman who replies to him. He almost collapses with relief, but something about this keeps him on edge nonetheless.

 

“Hello. Am I speaking with Mr. Francisco Ramon?” she asks sweetly, and despite her tone, Cisco can’t shake the feeling like he’s in trouble.

 

“Y-yeah,” Cisco affirms nervously, uncertain why he feels like he’s been caught doing something wrong. “Yeah -- that’s me.” Very smooth. Cisco cringes at himself as the words leave his mouth. “Who wants to know?”

 

Nice.

 

“I’m a representative from Central City Law -- and I was hoping to talk to you.”

 

Something cold curls in Cisco’s gut and the first thought in his mind goes straight to his lips: “I knew this day would come. Am I getting sued? Do I need a lawyer? I don’t have a lawyer,” Cisco blathers grimly, despite himself, and the warm laugh that enters the woman’s voice does ease his fear somewhat.

 

“No, Mr. Ramon, you are not being sued,” she assures him.

 

“Oh. Right. Of course.” Which Cisco could have guessed. Cisco heaves a deep exhale and rubs tiredly at his eyes. “Sorry. I mean -- you probably know that I work for S. T. A. R Labs and it seems like a matter of time before someone starts trying to sue everyone for… you know. Everything. Blowing up the city. Twice. It’s kind of been a recurring fear of mine -- you don’t want to hear this. Sorry. What’s going on?”

 

It’s too early in the morning for this.

 

“It is about S. T. A. R. Labs, actually,” she answers. “And the estate of Dr. Harrison Wells.”

 

Cisco goes still. Very slowly, his hand lowers from his face, and his mouth feels dry.

 

“What?” he manages softly, almost too quiet to be heard, but he gets an answer all the same.

 

“Dr. Harrison Wells; your former employer,” the woman continues. “I am sorry for your loss; it took some time to process his will.”

 

Cisco finds it very hard to move. Her voice seems distant, whereas the echo of another seems loud and clear:

 

_Help me._

 

It’s almost too much; almost enough that Cisco doesn’t hear the woman speaking over his own racing thoughts. Fortunately, he tunes in towards the end: “... and there is a considerable sum left in your name.”

 

Wait. What?

 

“Excuse me?” is the only thing Cisco can think to say. “What do you mean -- how much is… considerable? What does considerable mean?”

 

There’s a soft laugh in reply, that’s more fond than mocking, and Cisco’s eyes widen. “It means, Mr. Ramon,” the woman explains, “that it’s too much for me to feel comfortable disclosing over the phone.”

 

Oh.

 

“I’ll -- um,” he starts nervously, stumbling somewhat as he moves towards his closet. Almost everything he owns is in the laundry basket, and he nearly knocks the entire thing over in his hurry. “I’ll be right over. Just let me-- yeah. I can be right there.”

 

Cisco hangs up, and he stares at his phone as if he doesn’t recognize it.

 

What exactly is going on?

 

\--

 

After the singularity was closed, they had to make a decision about what happened with S. T. A. R. Labs.

 

Everything is in the name of a man who no longer exists and that poses an obvious problem. It’s unspokenly uncomfortable, and obvious through some of the short but serious conversations they have about how to proceed. None of them are sure what to do, and they’re equally afraid of losing what they have here: without the facilities of the labs, Barry’s work as the Flash is severely stunted. What will they do if he gets hurt? How will they contain any other meta humans that they capture?

 

But they decide one thing: Harrison Wells has to be declared deceased. Otherwise, control of the lab and its facilities will be locked down to what is a ‘missing’ person. In the wake of the singularity, with the three of them adding witness testimony, it isn’t difficult to add another name to the list of those lost to tragedy: _in absentia_.

 

Since then, it’s been a waiting game. Ray Palmer, in all his sunshiny disposition, has offered to swoop in and recover S. T. A. R. Labs once it becomes available on the market, and for that reason Cisco is unendingly grateful -- not only for the Flash, but for more selfish reasons as well.

 

Cisco finds these walls to be more welcoming than those of his own home -- or, he used to. Now, it’s strange; it’s something unknown and inexplicably alien. The whole building has Harrison Wells’ fingerprints all over it; his personal touch and his passion built this place, and that is an association that will not be shaken.

 

Well. Unless the whole place gets torn down in the wake of the man owning it no longer existing anymore.

 

But maybe they should let it go. Maybe S. T. A. R. labs should be razed to the ground so they can start over. It’d be cathartic, in a way, to begin again with something new -- but it’s a nice fantasy, and it won’t erase what happened, and it won’t chase away the memories that seem to follow him like a shadowy spectre.

 

That isn’t entirely an apt description; memories linger on him, but Cisco chases them as much as they chase him.

 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Ramon.”

 

“Hi,” Cisco greets nervously, fearing that his handshake is a little too unsteady as he reaches over the desk. “I’m -- uh -- sorry I took so long.”

 

“No worries at all,” she assures him, gesturing for him to take his seat. “This won’t take up too much of your time; this is a very simple process. I just need a few signatures.”

 

“Oh,” Cisco notes with some surprise. Idly, he tugs at his shirt, wishing he had something more formal that wasn’t a mess of wrinkles at the bottom of his laundry basket. “I always thought all this lawyer stuff got really confusing.”

 

She smiles at that, polite without being condescending; she’s sincere and Cisco is grateful for it. “Usually, yes,” she affirms. “But in this case it’s very straightforward -- but I will start by saying I’m very sorry for your loss.”

 

“Oh. Um.” Cisco is never sure what to say in response to that. He presses his lips together, trying to find the words, and all that comes out is: “thank you?”

 

It must be the right thing to say, because she nods in understanding. Thankfully. “You must have been very close,” she continues, which is very well intentioned, but it causes Cisco’s gut to churn.

 

_I’ve grown quite fond of you._

 

“Yeah, I guess,” Cisco replies vaguely, more quietly than he intends. This time, it’s definitely not the right answer, because her face is pinched in confusion. “... what?” he asks, more self conscious than defensive, and he’s eased with a dismissive wave of her fingers.

 

“I’m sorry. I just figured it was something more than that, considering the circumstance,” she explains, and Cisco’s shoulders sink.

 

_You have shown me what it’s like..._

 

“Dr. Wells is…” Cisco cuts himself short. Stupid. He looks at his hands, trying to find the right words. “... _was_ a very private person. I don’t think anyone is -- was -- ‘very close’ to him.”

 

Cisco might have argued differently, at another time. He used to take pride in that, back when he shared movie nights and special projects. Now… it’s all just smoke and mirrors; it’s nothing at all.

 

Just a waste of his time.

 

When he looks up, to his surprise, she’s smiling again. “I wouldn’t say that, Mr. Ramon,” she counters, reaching over to tap a stack of papers. “The reason I asked is… you’re the only beneficiary listed in Dr. Wells’ estate. So, everything goes to you.”

 

“Um.”

 

The only--? Everything? _Everything_?

 

Cisco’s expression falters. His lips turns up, more disbelieving than amused, and he quickly covers the expression with a nervous press of his hand against his mouth. He rubs there, uneasy and uncertain, before he lowers his fingers to let words pass. “Wait a minute. What -- what do you mean by that, exactly?”

 

The answer isn’t immediate. As she slides a stack of paperwork across the desk, her smile broadens.

 

“Congratulations, Mr. Ramon,” she tells him, clicking a pen and offering it out to him. “You’re the new CEO of S. T. A. R. Labs.”

 

\--

 

“You’re _what_?”

 

Caitlin looks mildly horrified, while Ronnie looks nothing short of delighted as he hovers at her shoulder.

 

“That’s what I said,” Cisco argues defensively, “for the record.”

 

“What does that mean?” Caitlin asks, her voice picking up speed as she continues. “Do you own this whole place? All the revenue from the Labs’ projects? Patents?”

 

“Yeah, that,” Cisco says slowly, nervously folding his arms across his chest. “And the manor… and all of Dr. Wells--” A pause; a cringe; a correction. “Thawne’s personal funds.”

 

Cisco’s eyes dart across the room, and he adds: “It’s a lot.”

 

Even though it seems impossible, Caitlin’s eyes go even wider, and that despaired expression is sicced on Ronnie instead as the man laughs.

 

“That’s great, Cisco,” he says brightly, and he recoils Caitlin slaps his arm. “What?”

 

“That’s not great!” Caitlin accuses coldly, another light, chastising slap punctuating each statement. “That’s stolen money -- that’s a murderer’s bank account!” As Ronnie frowns and Cisco holds his tongue, Caitlin turns to the last person in the room for support. “Barry?”

 

Barry hasn’t yet said a word. His gaze is pointed somewhere on the floor, his fingertips pressing against his lower lip; Cisco knows that look, and it makes his stomach twist uneasily.

 

After what feels like an eternity, Barry lets out an exhale that moves his whole body. When he lifts his head, it’s with a smile. The expression is worn, but not forced -- that’s what counts.

 

“Listen. That night, Thawne said he was offering me a chance to undo all the evil that he did,” Barry begins carefully, his gaze drifting between all of them. There always seems to be a conscious pause before someone says his name; a considerate effort to use the right one. “Changing the past wasn’t the way to do that. But taking this place,” Barry pauses to nod at their surroundings, “taking what was left to Cisco, and using it to help people who have been hurt…?”

 

Barry smiles, sweet and sad but full of hope, and it’s infectious. Caitlin’s concern melts into something softer and Cisco grins back, uncrossing his arms when Barry approaches and accepting the tight embrace of Barry’s arms around him.

 

“It’s okay,” Barry tells him, more quietly against his hair, and Cisco’s hands squeeze into fists against Barry’s back.

 

He should say something. Now, with the privacy of Barry close enough, he could mutter something into his ear -- ask for a moment alone. Anything. Just enough to tell him what he’d been dreaming of...

 

Instead, he chokes up, and he swallows it down. Cisco manages a little nod, pressing his lips together, and he keeps himself composed when Barry pulls away.

 

“But this does mean dinner’s on you for like -- the next millennium,” Barry adds jokingly, and Cisco can’t help but laugh. “Wanna go out and celebrate?”

 

“Absolutely,” Cisco says, with a sigh of relief that carries the tension of his body on the exhale, and when he peers at Caitlin for her approval, her smile has spread.

 

For the first time in what’s felt like too long, it all feels natural again… but his mind still wanders, heavy with the memory of Thawne’s voice in his ears.

 

\--

 

He blames the amount of drinks he downed while celebrating for how easily he passes out.

 

Cisco can’t summon up the energy to even change his clothes. He drops onto the bed, too dazed and warm in the wake of his pleasant buzz to dread what may come when he dreams. After a night of listening to Barry laugh, and seeing Ronnie actually blush when Caitlin tries to sing, everything just feels right. It’s hard to feel threatened by what looms over him.

 

‘What.’ He doesn’t know how to name it; he still doesn’t even know if it’s real.

 

Cisco knows it’s wrong to keep this to himself. The last time he tried to solve a problem by himself, he made a huge mistake. He let Hartley go, because he thought it was the right thing… but he was wrong.

 

“Say that again, for the record; I want everyone to hear it.”

 

“Huh?” Cisco says, stupidly blinking, and he finds himself on his feet. Hartley Rathaway stands next to him, smiling and smug, and he adjusts his glasses.

 

“That you were wrong,” he repeats. “I want to hear it.”

 

All at once, Cisco remembers this exchange. Months ago, Hartley chose the floor of some expensive gala to be the appropriate stage to tear him down, in front of not only their staff, but so many others as well. Cisco scowls, crossing his arms over his chest. A reply is ready on his tongue, but he’s interrupted before he gets the chance.

 

“That’s enough, Hartley,” chides a sudden voice: Thawne manifesting at Cisco’s elbow. Hartley looks ready to argue, but he steps back with a disdainful look, and the dream swallows him up again.

 

The dream. Of course. He fell asleep. Cisco dares a look at Thawne -- and it is Thawne: no glasses on the bridge of his nose, no chair and no disguise -- then glances away again. “Hello, Cisco,” he greets warmly, smiling with too much teeth, and Cisco’s expression stays stern. Thawne is undeterred, and oddly energetic in a way that Cisco doesn’t recognize from his former mentor.

 

Harrison Wells was always calm; reserved and impassive. Meanwhile, Eobard Thawne looks almost over eager, with bounce in his feet and smiles too big for his cheeks.

 

Maybe that’s an unfortunate side effect of stealing someone else’s face.

 

“What are you doing?” Cisco asks disbelievingly, his chest feeling tight, but Thawne does not immediately respond. The dream is brighter this time; memory fills in gaps, and Thawne collects a drink from the tray of a passing waitress, before she disappears into the dark. “Is this...?”

 

“The charity benefit,” Thawne supplies curtly, and he’s not actually looking at Cisco at all. He’s leaned over one of the tables, picking at the selection of finger food. “About three months prior to the accelerator explosion. It’s also, to be more relevant: a memory and a dream of yours, that we’re sharing together - and I cannot begin to express my relief that you’re dreaming of a place with something to eat, Cisco; I appreciate it like you wouldn’t believe.”

 

This can’t be happening.

 

Cisco presses his fingers to his temples and stares, trying to take in his surroundings and failing. The dream weighs on him, making it feel like he’s moving through fog, and his feet won’t budge; he can’t run from this.

 

It’s a stupid thought anyway; if this man is going to be chasing him, he’ll lose.

 

“I’m surprised you’re dreaming about this,” Thawne remarks between mouthfuls, gesturing to the space around them. “It was an unpleasant night for you.”

 

“Yeah, well,” Cisco says shortly, trying to sound assured and failing. He sweeps his fingers back through his hair, tucking stray locks behind his ears. “I’ve been having some unpleasant thoughts lately.”

 

Thawne makes a thoughtful, affirmative little sound around his thumb as he pops another appetizer into his mouth. “If I recall correctly,” he says, just a bit muffled. “It ended with quite the argument between you and Hartley; I had to intervene.”

 

He turns his head, looking fully at Thawne for the first time. He somehow doesn’t seem as intimidating with his cheeks full. It’s surreal to see him like this; the Harrison Wells he knew and admired never seemed the type to be caught so shamelessly stuffing his face.

 

He really hadn’t known him at all.

 

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” Cisco mutters sourly under his breath, and the words feel too close to his chest. “Then, or now. You didn’t have to do any of that for me. I can handle myself.”

 

“Mh,” Thawne intones at length, having to very deliberately chew and swallow before he continues. “I suppose not. This is your subconscious after all, but I thought privacy would suit us best.”

 

“No -- no, not just that; I mean.” Cisco pauses, rubbing at his face with a huff of frustration. It’s still hard to keep himself focused, to stop himself from being washed away in the tide of his dream. “Not Hartley. Everything else.”

 

Cisco presses his lips together, debating saying nothing at all, but then the words come. “You gave me S. T. A. R. Labs.”

 

A sigh of realization hits Thawne, escaping him with a mild tilt of his head, and his smile spreads. “Is it really that shocking?” he asks lightly, smiling around the rim of his glass, and Cisco’s expression stays surly.

 

“Maybe,” he mutters grimly, his gaze wandering towards where Hartley vanished into the foggy dreamscape. “Maybe not. I’m not sure anymore.”

 

Thawne sighs, as if it’s all a shame, and his tone is almost hurt. Cisco wishes he could believe it. “I’ve already told you how much you mean to me, Cisco. I wasn’t lying about that.”

 

_You have shown me what it’s like..._

 

Cisco tenses up, the words feeling like ice in his gut, and he doesn’t say anything to that. Thawne is quiet too, smiling into his drink with an expression that seems like… it could almost be called sad, and Cisco’s stomach does a flutter. He does his best to distract from it.

 

“Why are you even doing that?” He makes a gesture to the glass in Thawne’s hand, then the table of food. “How can any of that even taste like anything? It’s not real!” he snaps, abruptly babbling because he cannot help himself. Then, he doubts himself: “… is it real?”

 

Cisco should leave it at that, but he can’t help himself.

 

“...are _you_ real?” he asks, his voice low, and Thawne’s expression pinches before he gives a wry smile.

 

“For the moment.”

 

As Cisco stares at him, he realizes how unclear he really is. There’s a strangeness to the edges of Thawne’s body. He’s not entirely all there, like someone spilling water over an oil painting. Compared to the sharpness of the dream they shared before, Thawne is blurry, almost drifting out of focus...

 

Maybe he is disappearing after all.

 

“You’re getting stronger,” Thawne observes. “You’re seeing me; you’re speaking to me; you’re not losing control.”

 

True. Maybe. But Cisco isn’t entirely sure how.

 

“You’re not as scared, either,” Thawne adds slyly, and Cisco folds his arms across his chest.

 

“What do you want?” he asks outright, with false confidence, and Thawne sighs.

 

“Do you keep forgetting?” he chastises almost playfully, downing the last of his champagne. “Isn’t it obvious that I’ve been asking for help -- even if I’ve been unconventional about it?”

 

Cisco’s arms tighten against himself. “Unconventional is right,” he mutters. Phone calls, tv channels, music in his ears…

 

“I did what I could,” Thawne says. “To try to get back to you.”

 

Cisco clenches his eyes shut. Why did he have to say that?

 

“I told you never to come back,” Cisco reminds him coldly, and Thawne’s expression sinks.

 

“Cisco--”

 

“And I don’t--” Cisco cuts him off suddenly, needing to silence whatever argument Thawne will attempt to give. He has been holding too much inside his chest, and now it all threatens to burst out. “I didn’t ask for any of this from you! At all! I don’t need it. I don’t want it. I have my own work; I have my own family. I didn’t want you for that -- what I wanted was...”

 

Cisco shuts himself up right away. Stupid. So stupid.

 

Cisco glances up and he immediately regrets it. Thawne’s expression is too soft, too genuine, and the way he says his name is breathy; too much like an apology.

 

“Cisco… please.”

 

It’s too much.

 

Cisco snaps awake with a full body flinch. His room is dark, smothering, and he finds himself short of breath.

 

On his bedside table, his phone begins to buzz.

 

Cisco scowls, buries himself under the covers, and waits for it to pass.

 

\--

 

_I’ve been having this dream._

 

Cisco practices saying it in his head. It rolls around in his mouth, awkward and uncomfortable, and it seems to swell his tongue. He swallows it, rather than spitting it up, and it sits sickly in the pit of his stomach.

 

Why does the very idea of giving the dream voice feel so nauseous?

 

“...and why do you still work in that place?”

 

The question snaps Cisco back into the present. He glances up to see his mother’s worried face across the table, and he doesn’t supply an answer quickly enough to stop the dam from breaking. A flood of concern spills out of her mouth and Cisco tries to fight the instinctive shrink.

 

“That’s twice now, that it’s exploded,” she points out. “It’s a miracle that you’re still in one piece.”

 

“The Lab itself didn’t explode,” Cisco corrects mildly, but it feels like semantics. “Either time.” He focuses on his plate rather than the people gathered around the table, idly moving food around with his fork.

 

“How is that going to look on your resume?” she continues, worried and insistent, and Cisco’s nerves flutter.

 

“Well.” Cisco clears his throat. He had debated this for some time: how to tell them all what happened, and he didn’t intend for it to come out this way. “About that, actually… considering that they’re _my_ labs now, I think it’d look pretty good.”

 

There’s a sudden silence; not even the idle clatter of silverware. All eyes are on him now, and Cisco feels the very crushing -- albeit not unexpected -- realization that he’s not going to be met with pride.

 

“I got a call from a lawyer,” Cisco explains quietly as the tension drags. “Dr. Wells left everything to me.”

 

“Francisco,” his mother groans softly, and Cisco winces at the sound of his full name; that’s never good. “That terrible man--”

 

“He’s a great man,” Cisco corrects on kneejerk instinct, and it feels like ice in his gut. Even now, even after everything, his reflex is immediately set on defending him.

 

He wonders when -- if -- that will go away.

 

“No,” his mother insists, gesturing with one finger. “He’s not left you something good; he’s left you a terrible debt. Everyone is scared of that place; they’ll be scared of you, because of what that man did to you.”

 

Immediately, Cisco feels the urge to curl in on himself. She doesn’t mean it that way; Cisco knows that she can’t possibly grasp the depth and accuracy of what she’s saying, but even so: it churns his stomach and his appetite disappears in an instant.

 

What has Harrison Wells -- Eobard Thawne -- done to him? What has he turned Cisco into?

 

“That isn’t true,” Cisco says, determined but unconfrontational, and all around too quiet to be believed.

 

It feels almost powerless in a way: how he can’t bring himself to condemn Harrison Wells; even when he has every right.

 

He wants there to be something better -- even when it clearly doesn’t exist.

 

“But you are going to sell it?” she presses, and Cisco knows she means well. Concern comes out of her in waves and her eyes are soft. His mother isn’t a bully, she’s only trying to protect him.

 

Which makes him wish he could tell her the truth; tell her everything. But the words won’t come.

 

“Can we just not talk about it?” Cisco asks defeatedly, and when his mother looks ready to speak again, it’s Dante who chimes in.

 

“I think it’s incredible.”

 

Dante is smiling, and it’s sincere. “Congratulations, little brother,” he tells him fondly, and Cisco’s stomach gives an unfamiliar flutter.

 

\--

 

Even after everything they’ve been through, after meta humans and time travel, this is still something difficult for Cisco to come to terms with. Over the course of just a little over a year, after the particle accelerator exploded, Cisco has witnessed things beyond describing; he has seen the impossible -- he sees that every day in Barry Allen.

 

The idea of becoming that himself, however? The idea that he could be like Barry?

 

It should excite him, but instead it fills him with anxiety and dread.

 

After the singularity, all attempts at denial have gone out the window. No one can refute the existence of the Flash, and the whispers of other meta humans now come under intense scrutiny. The idea of these metas, with their gifts and their strengths, frightens people.

 

It frightens Cisco too, and he doesn’t know how to admit it. Even with Caitlin and Barry, his tongue feels tied. What can he tell them? He doesn’t even know what he can do, so how can he expect them to help?

 

The only person who can is gone.

 

The thought is almost invasive, for how suddenly it enters his mind. It seems dark and treacherous, and Cisco tries to smother it, but the feeling lingers.

 

If Dr. Wells were here, that is who he would confide in; who he would trust with this. His intelligence comes with comfort; assurance that no matter what is happening to Cisco -- or what may have already happened -- it will be okay. Like with Barry before him, Dr. Wells will have the solution.

 

But that’s a lie; the entirety of it is. Cisco longs for something that never truly existed in the first place -- someone who never really existed; just a parody.

 

What is real, however, is the friends he has around him still. That’s why he asks Joe West out for coffee.

 

Joe seems to permanently have the disposition of a concerned parent; he’s too observant to go without it. Cisco hasn’t done anything more than smile as he sees Joe come in the door, and the man’s posture knowingly slumps.

 

“Before we get started: how much coffee am I gonna need for this conversation?”

 

That was fast.

 

“Um.” Cisco stops, his brows knitting together as he considers. After a moment, he pushes Joe’s mug closer to his side of the table, giving him a hopeful glance. “Probably a lot?”

 

“Hm,” intones Joe grimly, and he shrugs out of his coat as he takes his seat. “What’s going on?”

 

That’s the thing, isn’t it. Cisco presses his lips together; he should have practiced this. “I’m -- having this problem…” he starts, running his neat nails against the ceramic of the cup. Words seem to stick in his throat, and all of it feels too much like a trick. Joe is patient, waiting quietly and watching Cisco as he sighs, regroups, and tries again.

 

“With Iris, you didn’t want her knowing about Barry because you thought she’d get hurt,” Cisco begins. Joe makes an affirmative sound as he settles into his seat and Cisco warms his hands on his mug. “This isn’t… exactly the same. But…”

 

Cisco trails off, and Joe fills the empty silence himself. “Is this about all that money?” he asks with a tilt of his head and Cisco winces a little.

 

“Well… Sort of?” he replies tentatively, “what did Barry tell you?”

 

Joe shrugs slightly. “Just what happened, and what he said,” he explains. “And I’d say the same thing: what’s the point of being upset, when you’re turning it around and helping people?”

 

The corner of Cisco’s mouth pulls. It should feel good -- and it does -- but it’s not enough, because it goes deeper than he’s willing to let on. “I know,” Cisco says with a sigh, “I know that, it’s just…”

 

Cisco can’t find the words, but Joe can. “You want to know why it was you,” Joe finishes for him. “Why he left it all to you.”

 

“It’s everything!” Cisco blurts, more passionately and flustered than he intends. “It’s the Labs -- it’s his _house_ \-- it’s _so much money_ I get dizzy trying to think about it. Why would he do that?”

 

Joe doesn’t immediately reply, and Cisco presses his lips together. “Evil time traveling psychopaths don’t do things like that,” Cisco mutters.

 

“Hey,” Joe’s reply is immediate. His tone has that careful balance that a good father has mastered: firm enough to be clearly disapproving, but soft enough to show sympathy at the same time. “Don’t do that.”

 

Joe sighs, rubbing his hand against his face tiredly. “I don’t know why he did it, Cisco,” he replies honestly. “I don’t know why he did a lot of things. But I don’t want you thinking it means something bad about you. You understand?”

 

Cisco stares at the table, rather than the man in front of him, and he nods grimly. That isn’t entirely the whole story and that’s where the issue comes in, but he can’t bring himself to say that yet.

 

Why? True, he had no one else. But in that case, why even bother with a will at all? If he died, then that meant his whole goal had failed; it wouldn’t have mattered what happened after that. Thawne talked so much about plans; about traps and being so far ahead… is this one of those precautions? Is this part of some carefully mapped out scheme?

 

Or is it something sincere? For once in his life?

 

“Okay. Let’s say: hypothetically,” Cisco sighs, tapping his fingers on his mug. “If you have a chance to help someone, but it’s also dangerous. You know they’d tell you not to do it for their sake… but you know it’s the only way to fix something?”

 

Joe narrows his eyes, and Cisco feels suddenly scrutinized. “What is this about, Cisco?” he asks, and Cisco struggles not to shrink.

 

They never got a confession from Thawne… that is, not in a way that didn’t also explicitly out the identity of the Flash. They have a recording of Thawne’s admission, though in the same breath he condemns Barry as well.

 

Barry’s dad has refused to take it; he knows what a target it paints on his son, and it isn’t worth the risk. So, again, their hands are tied.

 

Joe looks ready to wait this out until Cisco actually gives him an explanation -- but he’s interrupted by his phone. “Work,” he mutters, shaking his head somewhat as he rises from his seat. “Sorry, Cisco, I have to take this.”

 

Cisco nods and Joe lingers for a moment longer, heaving a sigh. “Look. What I’ve learned this year is that secrets don’t help anybody,” he adds sternly. “And you’d probably do a lot better if you let your friends help you. Okay?”

 

“Okay,” Cisco parrots quietly, and he watches Joe shrug back into his jacket before he continues. “Joe?”

 

Joe focuses back on him, and Cisco struggles to find his voice again.

 

“Do you think he could come back?” he asks quietly, sounding far more vulnerable than he intends.

 

Joe’s expression falls. Cisco doesn’t need to be more specific; Joe knows too well what he means already. “No,” he says, almost immediately, as he shakes his head. “No, I don’t; I can’t.”

 

“You can’t?” Cisco repeats uncertainly. “What do you mean you can’t?”

 

Heaving a sigh, Joe’s tone turns somber. “I can’t believe what Eddie did that night was for nothing,” he explains, and Cisco’s entire posture slumps. Silence follows and Joe nods, as if to regain his footing, then he gives Cisco a determined point with one finger. “We’re gonna keep on this conversation later. Trust your friends.”

 

Cisco says nothing, waving in a mild goodbye as Joe leaves. He knows Joe is right -- about trust and being transparent with the others. But even so… he has to do something, doesn’t he? Or else he’s going to be haunted for the rest of his life.

 

Once before, he told everyone about his dreams, and out of that his entire life unfolded and crumbled in a matter of mere days. He knows he can trust them; he trusts Barry and Caitlin more than anything. But this... what this is feels different somehow, and speaking too soon feels too raw. The dust has barely settled in Central City, and Barry is just beginning to seem like himself again. Taking that away from him for a dream and a hunch seems too unfair. Cisco can't bring himself to be that cruel.

 

\--

 

Cisco pours himself into work.

 

It’s easy enough to do, given how he’s just been landed with a whole new mess of legal obligations that he doesn’t fully understand yet. Even so, it does little to ease the racing in his brain. He tries to read, but his worried mind overrides it all. It would be easy to blame all the legal jargon, Cisco isn’t even sure he can think straight enough to process even plain English or Spanish at this point. He isn’t getting enough sleep, and when he’s awake, he’s in overdrive, his mind racing:

 

_I don’t know what’s happening to me; I’m something else; I’m something I don’t even understand..._

 

“Hey. You okay?”

 

The hand on his shoulder almost gives him a start. Glancing up, he finds Barry peering down at him with his head tilted to the side. One look at Cisco’s face must say enough, because Barry’s expression sinks without even hearing Cisco say a word. “What’s up?” Barry presses, concerned but feigning casual for both their sakes; simple words but a firm squeeze on Cisco’s shoulder. “You look exhausted.”

 

No surprise. Cisco presses his hand to eyes and tiredly rubs, wondering just how dark the circles around them must be. He’s almost nodded off once or twice, but sheer determination keeps him going.

 

Determination, or dread. Or both.

 

“Well,” Cisco says tentatively, reclining back in his chair and rolling the straw of his soda to the corner of his mouth. “There’s a long version and a short version -- and most of it you know already.”

 

The corners of Barry’s mouth pull, and his shoulders slump with a sigh. “Yeah, I know. I --” he begins, but a fresh notification lighting up Cisco’s computer screen cuts him short.

 

“Robbery,” Barry sighs, and his expression weakens as he turns his gaze back to Cisco. “Short version?”

 

Shaking his head, Cisco waves him off. “Not short enough; not urgent enough. Go.”

 

“Whatever you say, boss,” Barry teases slyly, which does make Cisco chuckle, before he vanishes with a gust that blows Cisco’s hair into his eyes. Sweeping it back with a trained, familiar slide of his hand, Cisco sips his soda and he sighs, trying to bite down before it turns into a yawn.

 

The team has felt shaky. They’re scattered, in a way; not quite on solid footing or even equal ground with one another. It isn’t because of a missing piece, exactly -- like losing a cog in a machine -- but sometimes it feels that way. It’s more than that; they’re all a bit too deep in their own heads, trying to come to terms with it all in their own ways.

 

Barry always wants to help people; he wants to protect them, and if Cisco confides in him, he knows Barry will do everything in his power to try to comfort him.

 

That’s why it feels too cruel and selfish to tell Barry everything -- to tell him that part of the problem is how Cisco misses the man who killed Barry’s mother, imprisoned his father, and jaded his entire life.

 

Cisco turns back to his computer screen. In the dimmed light of the Labs after hours, the glow of seems unnaturally pronounced…

 

On some impulse that he can’t name, Cisco reaches out. His fingers extend, slowly edging closer, and it’s almost as if…

 

It’s a strange thing, but he feels as if something is reaching back.

 

The touch connects, and the screen erupts in static. It buzzes, coursing up his arm, and he can’t tell if the noise is out loud or inside his head.

 

But it sounds like his name, spoken like a plea or a desperate little prayer.

 

Cisco snatches himself away, his free hand circling his wrist and rubbing there. As quickly as it came, it’s gone again -- but Cisco knows it’s only temporary. This will keep on happening. Unless something changes.

 

He has to do something about it.

 

This is his power; his dream; his responsibility.

 

Barry is out; Caitlin and Ronnie have gone home… and there’s cots on the lower level of the Labs, for employees who worked long hours trying to achieve a dream that went up in smoke.

 

No more running. Cisco collects himself, and makes his choice.

 

\--

 

When he dreams, it’s with deliberate purpose, and it feels like something surreal.

 

Darkness does not push in on him. Instead, he’s able to navigate it. The control is comforting, as is how he can move his body without the sluggish weight of sleep dragging him down. He walks through the vague, undefined landscape of his consciousness, and it’s like moving through smoke.

 

“Where are you?” Cisco mutters, more to himself than actually expecting any reply. It figures that the one time he wants an answer, he would receive nothing but silence.

 

Cisco waits, wanders, and nothing comes to his seeking fingers. For a moment, he wonders at naive hope; maybe the window has passed. Maybe Thawne has vanished into some space between dream and reality, and would never be seen again.

 

As ever, he speaks too soon.

 

“Cisco.”

 

Whipping around too quickly, Cisco’s vision spins -- but at last there’s finally something to see. Eobard Thawne stands before him, blurry but undeniable, in the smoky realm of Cisco’s dream.

 

“Hello, Cisco,” he greets, seeming genuinely warm, and Cisco’s throat feels too tight to respond.

 

“You came on your own this time,” Thawne sighs and chuckles warmly, with a strange tone that Cisco is reluctant to name as pride. “I knew you would.”

 

Cisco’s skin crawls and his eyes narrow. He doesn’t acknowledge it; he can’t. “Yeah, because I want answers. Tell me what’s going on. How is this possible? How are you alive?” he asks abruptly, questions spilling from his lips, and Thawne’s expression pinches.

 

“Straight to the point then,” Thawne replies, his arms folding neatly behind his back. “That’s the thing: I’m not entirely certain I am alive.”

 

Cisco blinks, and he shrugs his shoulders. “So... what?” Cisco presses, “what does that mean?”

 

Thawne tilts his head back, and when he gestures with his hands, they blur out of sight. It isn’t the same as the vibrations he uses to disguise himself; this time, he fades and flickers, like he’s made of smoke. Like the dream might swallow him up again.

 

“When Eddie Thawne put a bullet in his chest, he erased my past,” he explains, slow and particular with his words. Cisco can tell there’s an anger he contains; like he’s tasting something bitter in his mouth but forcing himself to swallow. “But in doing so, you see, he created something: he formed a time paradox.”

 

Cisco pauses, brows tightening, but as Thawne speaks, it falls into place. “Because you need to exist,” he concludes slowly. “You have to be alive, or Eddie would have never shot himself in the first place. If you don’t exist, nothing that happened to Barry -- to all of us in this timeline, makes sense anymore…”

 

Thawne makes a humming sound, a soft affirmative, and again amusement enters his voice. “Sharp as ever, Cisco,” he praises, and Cisco’s expression darkens.

 

“Saying nice things to me isn’t going to change anything,” Cisco replies coldly, and Thawne’s expression is very close to one of hurt -- or at least a good imitation of it.

 

Cisco almost wishes he could believe it.

 

“Cisco,” Thawne entreats, with that false gentleness. It once would have made Cisco feel secure; reassured and doted upon -- but now he knows the venom behind it, and all it does is leave him feeling nauseous. “I need you to help me.”

 

Thawne takes a step forward, flickering and fading. “I’m trapped here; I’m always -- trapped.” The word seems to stick in his throat and Thawne tries to dislodge it with a laugh. “Now I’m here, between the fabric of the universe: a time paradox, a person who needs to exist, but simultaneously cannot.”

 

It makes sense, in a fractured way. Eddie Thawne is the ancestor to Eobard Thawne; and as he dies, so does the Thawne line. Eobard Thawne is wiped from history -- but, Eobard Thawne has already meddled with time. If he does not exist, then by extension neither should this entire timeline. It should have been reset, with everything else, and that was what sparked the singularity -- but Barry stopped it. By sheer force of will, Barry kept them here, when by all means they logically should not be.

 

Eobard Thawne must exist, but can’t exist; he is lost between time.

 

Between the vibrations of the universe.

 

“But I can get out of here,” Thawne continues lowly, urgently, as he advances on Cisco. “I can be pulled from here, out of nothing, and into something real…”

 

As Thawne trails off, Cisco realizes too quickly what he means. His eyes widen, and his voice stutters. “You think that I can…?” He laughs, shaking and disbelieving. “I can’t do that!”

 

“Yes, you can,” Thawne argues, sounding utterly self assured. “I know you can. You just don’t know it yet; I can help you.”

 

Shaking his head from side to side, Cisco shivers and Thawne continues. “I’m not asking to follow you out of here,” he clarifies. “You, Cisco, are capable of something beautiful -- you have the infinite scope of the universe at your fingertips… and I only ask to be returned where I belong. If you--”

 

“No.”

 

Cisco doesn’t give Thawne a chance to finish. He doesn’t want to hear whatever lie or manipulation will come to try to sway him. Shivering where he stands, he hates how his voice wavers. It betrays his nerves, his fear despite the conviction of his words. “Stay away from me.”

 

“Cisco,” Thawne says lowly, “You need me--”

 

“No, I don’t,” Cisco tells him coldly. “None of us do.”

 

Something seems to swell in the depths on his dream. Darkness turns into some tangible sort of pressure, pining at his sides, and his chest constricts. Whatever this is, whatever realm this dream belongs to, Cisco isn’t in full command of it; Thawne’s anger bleeds into its atmosphere, infecting it with his unspoken threats.

 

Wake up, he thinks to himself, wake up.

 

“I was promised something,” Thawne repeats, lower and darker. “And it was taken from me. I was told I could go home--”

 

Thawne steps closer, there but not whole, and Cisco is too wary to test just what he can do. “And now -- after everything I’ve given you--”

 

His heart pounds and he stumbles, barely catching himself. This is a mistake; he should not have come here alone--

 

“Do you still not understand?”

 

Thawne’s hand extends, reaching for him, and all Cisco can envision is that he’ll be reaching _through_ him.

 

Instead, he’s grabbed. Thawne takes hold of a fistful of his shirt, and he’s suddenly solid. His once blurred edges form hard lines, and his voice is too clear.

 

“You can’t leave me like this -- Cisco--!”

 

But he does. He wakes with a shout and stumble. Nearly falling out of his bed, Cisco kicks his blankets off, and struggles to regain his breathing. He can’t seem to calm himself down; it gets worse, heaving through his entire chest, and he realizes how much his hands shake.

 

Cisco just left him to die.

 

Cisco curls in on himself, hugging his knees to his chest as he hunches over in his bed. He shakes, pressing the heel of his palm against his eyes as his vision blurs -- and his skin comes back wet. Once he realizes what’s started, it’s hard to make himself stop: he makes a sound between a laugh and a sob, and doesn’t bother trying to wipe the dampness from his cheeks.

 

He left him to die. He left him to fade into nothing, in between realms of existence.

 

The one person who really saw him for who he was, who recognized him, and never once in his life made him feel foolish or naive. Who called on him when he was nothing, and made him something… who he stupidly dared to think might reciprocate if Cisco ever found the nerve to actually--

 

Cisco shivers and he squeezes himself even tighter.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into nothing. “I’m so sorry…”

 

\--

 

 

Cisco keeps the entire encounter to himself.

 

Joe’s words press on his consciousness, stern and nagging, but there’s no point: what would he gain, apart from their concern? Besides, even speaking of it feels too much; it threatens to suffocate him. So he swallows it down, rather than risking choking on it. Cisco has dealt with it: he confronted Thawne and he denied him. That is the end of it.

 

Or, partially. There’s still other matters relating to Eobard Thawne to contend with: like the very luxurious manor on the outskirts of Central City.

 

Cisco has only been to the manor once before, and now he’s coming inside as its new owner. Not even two steps in, he already feels terribly out of place. The entire building is designed so sleek and uniform… it almost feels like it wasn’t lived in at all.

 

He has to sell it, is the first thought in his head. He’s not going to be staying here -- not in a million years -- but first he has to make sure there was nothing incriminating here. For all he knows, there’s a super secret evil lab hidden in the basement.

 

Which, at one point, he might have found fun to think about.

 

He doesn’t mean to come here alone, but both Caitlin and Barry are tied up tonight, and Cisco doesn’t like the idea of putting it off. It looms uncomfortably around him, and he wants to get this over with.

 

The manor feels cold -- colder inside than the weather outside. Then again, it may be his nerves to blame more than anything else. Either way, Cisco pulls his sweater tighter, and idly tucks back a stray lock of hair, trying to regain his courage.

 

One step at a time.

 

He flicks the lights on, though it does little to make the space seem any more inviting. There’s an emptiness around the place; it feels more like a museum than someone’s home. Then again, maybe that makes a certain sort of sense: Thawne always said his home was elsewhere; he never felt like he belonged here.

 

What he had here wasn’t enough.

 

Cisco’s stomach does an unpleasant twist, and he peers around, starting at the kitchen. There’s thankfully no food in the fridge that’s gone bad in Thawne’s absence: there isn’t much in there at all, really. Lots of drinks -- purified water because the tap isn’t good enough, apparently -- and half a carton of eggs.

 

Cisco frowns, narrowing his eyes. Did Thawne even really live here? It doesn’t seem like it. Maybe he had already cleared himself out, once he was exposed, but Cisco isn’t so certain. He closes the fridge with too much force -- but not without snatching a glass bottle soda first.

 

Seems an odd thing for a super genius to keep in his house, but Cisco isn’t complaining now. He doesn’t really have the perspective on Thawne that he once hoped. He knew Harrison Wells -- or who he thought was Harrison Wells -- and he used to pride himself on being one of the few who shared any intimate details with a man usually so cold and withdrawn.

 

But that isn’t the truth; not entirely.

 

Cisco pops the cap off of on the kitchen counter and sips from the bottle with a sigh. Joe has investigated this place before; he told Cisco as much -- and they came up with nothing. Maybe Thawne was clever enough to not hide his secrets in his house… but something about the place puts Cisco on edge. He wanders deeper inside, and nurses his coke in small sips.

 

“So,” he mutters to himself, trying to use his own voice to make the darkness seem less suffocating. “If I were time traveling speedster psycho, where would I put my secret lair?”

 

“Now, that’s needlessly offensive.”

 

Cisco jumps; the glass bottle falling from his fingers to shatter into pieces on once polished floors. His hair gets in his face as he whips around, trying to pinpoint the source of the voice -- his voice -- he’s somewhere in the house…

 

“It’s all right, Cisco.”

 

Oh it most certainly is not, considering how he’s trapped in a house with a murderer, where no one can hear him scream… except, he doesn’t see him. Cisco is frantic, but not so panicked that he’d scan over Thawne entirely. He sounds so close, but Cisco can’t find him.

 

“Where…?” he stutters and stops, his voice feeling caught in his throat, and Thawne answers all the same.

 

“I’m right here.”

 

“What?”

 

Cisco goes still. In the dark, the wide glass windows reflect like vast mirrors, and Thawne is there: standing at Cisco’s shoulder with his arms folded neatly behind his back. There’s no one beside him -- a flailing spin confirms it -- but when his gaze returns to the glass, there he is.

 

He’s in the reflections; he’s in between worlds -- even closer than he used to be.

 

“Oh no,” Cisco manages, and Thawne spreads his arms apart: open and disarming.

 

“Easy, Cisco--”

 

Not a chance in hell.

 

Barry is the person on the team who does the running. Cisco really ought to have taken him as inspiration, but he’s never been gym material and childhood asthma makes him wary -- but none of that is to blame for how he fails. He skids when he tries to flee, shoes sticking in spilled coke and knocking away broken glass. It causes him to slip, stumble, and the only thing that keeps him from falling is the fumbling grip on the back of the bar.

 

“There’s no way --” Cisco chokes, struggling to keep himself steady. His arms shake now where they hold him upright, and so does his voice. “You can’t be here…”

 

“Well.” Thawne’s voice carries a laugh to it, as if self deprecating. “I’m not really here; that’s the issue.”

 

Cisco can’t make himself turn around to look. “How?” he groans weakly, his eyes squeezed shut -- as if not looking at him means he’s not really there. “How is that possible?”

 

“It’s quite simple really,” Thawne answers. “You let me get my hands on you.”

 

The realization hits Cisco with a wince. He raises one unsteady hand, covering his mouth. “I didn’t know,” he murmurs, half muffled by his hand, but still audible nonetheless, because Thawne replies.

 

“Neither did I, to be perfectly honest.” Thawne sounds oddly chirper, and it makes Cisco feel even colder. “It was too brief, of course, for me to follow you out of there entirely… but I am a little closer than I was.”

 

Stupid. Cisco berates himself, trying to stay steady. So stupid...

 

“You don’t have to be afraid, Cisco.”

 

Despite himself, Cisco laughs. The sound breaks halfway, closer to a sob, and he tries to smother it behind his palm.

 

“Cisco…” Thawne sighs as if it’s genuinely difficult to see him like this. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

 

Scoffing, Cisco lowers his hand, but he still can’t make himself turn around. “No -- because I’m still useful, right?” he accuses shakily.

 

“And so am I,” Thawne offers easily. “If Henry Allen wants to be a free man.”

 

“Don’t,” Cisco says sharply. “Don’t… do that. I know you won’t do it. I’m not stupid.”

 

“I’d never accuse you of that, Cisco,” Thawne replies, and maybe that’s true, but Cisco inhales sharply, struggling to find his feet.

 

“No,” he agrees faintly. “Smart, but gullible. That’s what you need.”

 

“What I need,” Thawne corrects, “is to go home.”

 

The sound chills Cisco to his core, and yet the dread of it seems to deflate somewhat when Thawne continues.

 

"And to eat something," he adds. "I'm starving."

 

He has to be kidding.

 

Cisco takes several slow, deep breaths and straightens himself up.

 

“Are you serious right now?”

 

He finds the strength to turn around, and through the tall glass windows, Thawne shrugs.

 

\--

 

Cisco orders pizza, and endures the most awkward twenty minute wait time of his life.

 

The biggest mirror in the house is in Thawne’s bedroom. It’s set above his dresser, across from his bed, so Cisco can see him sitting on the edge of the mattress as he comes inside.

 

“It’s spicy,” he mutters, as if that’s somehow a petty victory. “And I don’t wanna hear any complaints about it. I never get to order what I want because Ronnie claims pizza dominance and Caitlin acts like anything with so much as a single jalapeno in it is gonna melt the roof of her mouth.”

 

Shut up, Cisco, he thinks bitterly, babbling despite himself. He drops the pizza box onto the bed, beside where Thawne is… presumably sitting, according to the mirror. As Cisco opens it, Thawne’s face breaks into another impossibly huge grin, and he sets upon the offering all too eagerly.

 

This is surreal.

 

Thawne makes an almost exaggerated sound of enjoyment at the first bite, then speaks with his mouth half full. “How are they, by the way?” he asks, his thumb rubbing at the corner of his mouth. “Caitlin and Ronnie?”

 

“What? Like you care?” he mutters and paces in the gap between the bed and the mirror. He sighs and presses his hand nervously over his mouth, as if to smother the words that threaten to bubble out of him.

 

“I never pretended to tolerate anyone, Cisco,” Thawne tells him between enthusiastic bites. “I thought that was obvious.”

 

Cisco can’t help himself scoffing. “Yeah, like that’s supposed to make me okay with you doing your best Samara Morgan impression.”

 

Thawne’s squints, one brow raising, and Cisco pauses before he awkwardly fumbles. “Because, you know -- in the Ring, with the tv because you were… you know? Never mind.”

 

That actually earns a chuckle, and Thawne takes another bite of pizza. “I suppose that one didn’t make it to movie night,” he observes, and it makes Cisco’s skin prickle.

 

“Is that funny now?” he mutters. “All that time we spent together?”

 

“Just the opposite,” Thawne counters, his voice soft and frustratingly earnest. “That time is very important to me.”

 

“Yeah, but it wasn’t enough, was it?”

 

The moment he says it, he regrets it. Cisco presses his lips together. Thawne pauses, straightening up expectantly where he sits, and Cisco feels his stomach twist.

 

“Cisco,” Thawne begins slowly. “If you ever doubted--”

 

“Why wouldn’t I?” Cisco interrupts brashly. On stupid impulse, he turns towards the bed -- then corrects himself, whipping around to face the mirror. “After everything you’ve done?”

 

Thawne sighs, dropping a half eaten slice of pizza back into the box. “I don’t belong here, Cisco,” he says quietly, and Cisco wishes all he felt was offense. “I cannot begin to express how... caging it is, to be trapped in this place -- but you…”

 

Cisco almost stops him; he doesn’t want to hear whatever coaxing praise will come… but at the same time he does; at the same time he knows he’s starved for it.

 

“You made my time here something worthwhile,” Thawne concludes. “That is entirely the truth.”

 

Cisco lowers his gaze, his jaw feeling tight, and he wishes he didn’t believe him.

 

“But whatever is out there,” Cisco counters lowly, gesturing vaguely with one hand, as if to indicate the entire future with his fingertips. “Whatever you have waiting for you; that means more.”

 

Thawne doesn’t argue, so Cisco elaborates. “You gave me up,” he reminds quietly. “Given the choice between the two, you didn’t pick me.”

 

Cisco curls his fingers towards his palms, as if that will stop his hands from shaking. “I’m used to being picked second,” he adds, not self pitying but sadly matter of fact. “Or third, if I’m lucky. I just thought… if there would be one person -- just for once -- who liked _me_ best…”

 

Cisco shrugs, as if to dismiss the gravity of what he says -- but it doesn’t quite succeed. “I thought that person would be you.”

 

But of course that isn’t true.

 

Thawne wets his lips, his tongue just barely skimming out over his upper lip, and he sighs. “It wasn’t easy for me,” he replies. “Although I doubt I could convince you.”

 

Cisco makes a disbelieving noise, almost like a scoff, but Thawne keeps talking. “I came into this time, and I had to accept that everyone around me was -- essentially -- dead already, from my perspective. I was speaking with you, growing fond of you, while simultaneously knowing... “

 

“That doesn’t make a difference!” Cisco blurts, and Thawne pauses, reclining slightly as if weighed back by the firmness in Cisco’s voice. “Everything has an expiry date! Everyone here is going to die eventually, that doesn’t give you a free pass to just… just…”

 

His stomach churns. Cisco cups his hand over his mouth, as if to keep himself from falling apart altogether.

 

From his realm inside the mirror, Thawne stands. Long, steady legs carry him closer to Cisco, where he could reach out to touch him if he wanted -- if he were real.

 

“Cisco, I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s sincere -- Cisco hates that he can tell. “But if you knew what I lost…”

 

Slowly, Cisco lowers his hand. “I don’t know,” he agrees quietly, his voice breaking midway through. He shouldn’t keep talking, he should let it be, but he can’t help himself. His chest swells and he can’t keep himself contained. “What I do know is -- whatever it is -- I couldn’t make up for it.”

 

“Cisco…”

 

His hand extends, reaching for his face, and Cisco can’t tell if it’s real or imagination filling in the gaps, letting him feel it as slender fingers trace the line of his jaw.

 

Cisco should recoil. He should be furious. He should hate him, but he doesn’t -- he can’t -- and he knows how utterly twisted that very notion is. But here he is, standing in an empty room, but he can feel warm hands cup his face.

 

Cisco has always been trying. His family loves him, but they don’t understand him. It’s changed since then; he’s found friends, and people who look at him and truly see him… and the person who started it all, who brought him into that light was…

 

Cisco’s breaths become gradually unsteady. There’s a phantom touch against his cheek: Thawne’s thumb rubbing in small circles, trying to wipe away tears that he cannot touch.

 

He feels stupid; so stupid, and he doesn’t help himself by opening his mouth again.

 

“Why wasn’t I enough?”

 

It’s too much.

 

Cisco can’t even bring himself to wait for an answer. He twists away from Thawne’s reach, turning from the mirror entirely, and when he speaks, his voice is muffled. “I’ll help you.”

 

“Cisco?”

 

“I said I’ll help you,” he repeats, louder now, and his shoulders stiffen. He wipes his cheeks with his shirt sleeve, rough and brief, as if that disguises the act for what it is. “I’ll send you -- wherever you want to go. I don’t care; I just don’t want to see you again. Ever.”

 

Thawne is quiet. Cisco waits, catching his lip beneath his teeth and keeping his gaze averted. “Well?” he prompts, as the silence stretches, and when the reply comes, Thawne’s tone is quietly detached.

 

“Thank you, Cisco,” he tells him softly, and Cisco leaves the room without looking back.

 

\--

 

To his credit, Thawne at least leaves him alone for the rest of the night.

 

Cisco is reluctant to read too far into it; he doubts Thawne is really all that ashamed -- he confirmed as much when Cisco confronted him in the pipeline -- but he knows enough to give Cisco space. It isn’t until midday that Thawne shows himself again, and it’s in the form of static on his car radio as he drives to S. T. A. R. Labs.

 

This time, Cisco’s response is to sigh rather than to shrink. Maybe that’s a sign of improvement; who can say. All he does is reach one hand over to tap at his phone, where it’s plugged into the speakers.

 

It only takes a press of his fingers to the screen, and the static clears. Instead, loud and steady, a familiar song takes over.

 

_I never said you’d be easy, but if it was all up to me, I’d be no trouble -- hey, we’re in trouble..._

 

Despite himself, something in his chest flutters.

 

Better to smother it. Cisco lets out a huff of a breath, and he turns the volume down. “Is that some kind of apology?” he asks skeptically, and Thawne’s voice hums through the speakers.

 

“More of a conversation starter,” Thawne counters. “Where are we going?”

 

It’s strange how casually he asks; as if this is just some everyday errand rather than… whatever it is they want to call it.

 

“The Labs,” Cisco responds bluntly. “...my Labs.” The correction comes oddly, and it seems to make Thawne more pleased than annoyed -- which is the opposite of what Cisco hopes, petty as it may seem. “If we’re doing this, then I want the dream tech and some other equipment.”

 

“Equipment?” Thawne parrots. “Such as?”

 

Cisco rolls his eyes and exasperation bleeds into his voice, raising its volume. “I dunno! Like maybe the type that will stop a speedster psycho from racing around Central City on a murder spree if he gets loose on my watch?”

 

There’s a tsking sound from between the speakers, and Cisco feels his skin heating up. “Don’t even say anything,” Cisco forewarns. “I will turn this car around.”

 

Stupid thing to say, but it feels powerful anyway; he’s been waiting all his life for an excuse to use that line.

 

“I can’t say that I blame you,” Thawne admits begrudgingly. “I am aware that I betrayed your trust.”

 

“That’s putting it lightly,” Cisco mutters under his breath, idly tucking stray hair back behind his ear. “You shredded my heart.”

 

“Another me,” Thawne counters. “Under another circumstance.”

 

“Don’t,” Cisco says sharply, more harshly than he intends, and he has to pause to recollect himself. Taking a deliberate huff of breath, Cisco continues. “I mentioned how I’d turn the car around…”

 

That seems to quiet Thawne for the moment, and it’s Cisco who feels tempted to break the silence. His fingers drum on the steering wheel, and he hates how he opens his mouth. “Just because you’re all… disconnected from time, doesn’t mean you get to run around doing whatever you want. And… saying that I didn’t die because one day I chose to turn left instead of right doesn’t excuse anything.”

 

Thawne doesn’t argue, which doesn’t mean he’s agreeing; if anything, his silence is more ominous. Cisco wets his lips, and he continues quietly.

 

“How many times have I died?”

 

“In theory? Countless times.” Thawne says it as if it’s nothing at all, and it’s chilling. Cisco keeps trying to turn to glare at him, forgetting that there’s nothing there to look at in the first place. “There’s an infinite stream to time, so many threads of reality branching off from any moment. There’s no way to grasp the scope of it. Except… well.”

 

Thawne trails off purposefully, and Cisco knows where the implication lies.

 

“Except I can,” Cisco finishes. “You think I can, anyway.”

 

“I know you can,” Thawne counters immediately. The utter lack of hesitation should be reassuring, but instead it makes Cisco uneasy.

 

“I know a lot about your future -- in fact, I could tell you your name,” he offers. “That is, the name you pick for yourself.”

 

“No!” Cisco says immediately. “No! Do not tell me that. That is _sacred_.”

 

Thawne makes a tsking sound. “Shame,” he sighs. “It’s a good one.”

 

...damn it.

 

“That’s cheating,” Cisco mutters sourly, and Thawne chuckles quietly.

 

“You doubt yourself too much,” Thawne adds sternly, as silence stretches without Cisco’s response. “You always do. I know what lies ahead for you Cisco. Is it so hard to believe that?”

 

“Yeah,” Cisco says shortly. “It is. I have a hard time believing anything that comes out of your mouth now.”

 

A sigh slips from between the speakers and Cisco clenches his hands on the wheel. “I’ve always been impressed by what you’re capable of,” Thawne tells him. “Despite your age; despite your… surroundings; the limitations placed upon you by this era… you surpassed every expectation I had. I looked at you, and I could see the future.”

 

Thawne chuckles slightly. “Being with you was valuable to me,” Thawne assures him. “Working with you. Seeing your brilliance up close -- sharing your company... It was something like home.”

 

Very deliberately, Cisco takes a breath in and out, and he wishes those words didn’t actually give him so much comfort.

 

“I won’t expect you to believe everything I say, but trust me on this one thing,” Thawne says. “You can do this.”

 

“Well,” Cisco mutters as he pulls into the Labs and puts the car in park. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

 

Cisco waits in the car a beat too long, hesitating. He has to ask; he hates it, but he does. “...is it really good?” he blurts quickly, before he can think better of it.

 

“Your name?” Thawne asks loftily, as if Cisco could mean anything else. “Oh yes. I’d say it’s your best work yet.”

 

Flustering despite himself, Cisco fumbles on his way out of the van, unable to resist the smile that creeps up on his cheeks.

 

\--

 

Back at the manor, Cisco sets up a force field.

 

Thawne doesn’t do much complaining as Cisco does his work. Maybe that’s courtesy, or maybe he’s too busy scarfing down the offering of Big Belly Burger that Cisco brought along with him on the way back. Maybe it’s kindness, knowing how hungry he is, or maybe it’s a cheap tactic on Cisco’s part to shut him up.

 

Cisco wishes it was that simple, but his feelings for the man beside him have always been anything but.

 

“So,” Cisco announces, after checking -- double and triple checking -- that everything is in place. He stands up, facing the mirror, where Thawne is visibly stuffing himself. “How do you expect this to work?”

 

“Mh,” Thawne intones around his mouthful of food, swallowing it down before he speaks. “It’s not unlike the directions I gave Barry that night: when you dream, you can direct yourself. Before, when you dreamed about the benefit, or about the nights we spent at the Labs… it’s summoning up that strand of time; that world. You did it unconsciously before; this time, you just need to focus on exactly what you want to see.”

 

Which all makes enough sense, except… “But I don’t know where you want to go,” Cisco argues stubbornly. “I’ve never seen it; how am I supposed to send you there?”

 

“That’s where I come in,” Thawne explains simply. “I’ll be with you."

 

He says it like it’s supposed to be comforting, but it just makes Cisco feel more on edge.

 

But what choice does he have now?

 

“Fine,” he sighs, sarcasm bleeding into his tone as he places the glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Yeah. Why shouldn’t I just take your word for it?”

 

Thawne finishes his food, crushing the wrapping up in his fist and tossing it aside in the bag. “I have no intention of hurting you, Cisco,” he says sincerely. “There would be no reason behind it.”

 

So it’s about reason; not sentiment. He isn’t sure why he’s still surprised. Cisco presses his lips together, his jaw feeling tight, and with some reluctance, he drops himself onto the bed. He flops against it, finding the mattress more soft than he initially anticipates, and he stares at the ceiling above him.

 

It’s actually going to be a trial to sleep when he’s so wound up.

 

Tension must be coming off of him in waves, because there’s a sigh and the sound of his name.

 

“Cisco,” Thawne begins sternly, and Cisco feels his skin prickle.

 

“Don’t -- rush me!” Cisco snaps, raising one finger and gesturing vaguely towards where he assumes Thawne is. “I’m working on it.”

 

The seconds that follow seem to drag like minutes. The room around him seems too still, too quiet, and he can hear the sound of Thawne’s very slow, deep breathing. He’s counting seconds too; Cisco can tell, and it feels like pressure on his spine.

 

“Cisco,” Thawne repeats, and it’s closer than the last time. “You need to calm down.”

 

“I am calm!” Cisco argues sharply, which only proves the opposite. He flusters somewhat, embarrassed by his own nerves, and he adjusts the glasses idly.

 

There’s something strange that follows. It’s almost as if Cisco can feel the mattress shift -- he never noticed it before… how could he? He never went near the bed before, when Thawne was sitting there. But, obviously: if he can eat… something like this doesn’t seem off limits.

 

He isn’t really here -- Cisco knows that -- but the bed dips as if another body is moving across it.

 

“What?” Cisco asks, half sitting up, and Thawne’s voice is suddenly much closer than before.

 

On instinct, Cisco balks. He tries to twist out of reach, but he’s stopped halfway when Thawne speaks again.

 

“Ssh,” is intoned softly, close against his hair, and there’s the weight of a palm against his chest. “Relax.”

 

Cisco almost argues again, but Thawne keeps speaking. He can’t see it, but he can feel the slow, steady slide of slender fingers across his collarbone. Cisco frowns, the corners of his lips moving; words left unspoken rolling uneasily in his mouth. He swallows them down, and he fixes the glasses on his face, letting his eyes shut.

 

“There you go.” The encouragement feels sincere rather than belittling, to some surprise. “Easy, Cisco. Breathe.”

 

Thawne’s next inhale is purposefully dramatic, audible and sharp: an obvious lead for Cisco to follow. He does, despite himself, his breathing tunes into the steady, slow rhythm Thawne demonstrates. It syncs together, and Cisco manages to borrow some of Thawne’s composure.

 

“Relax,” he repeats gently. His voice is breathy, soft, and it begins to carry Cisco away.

 

“Easy for you to say,” he mumbles on a stubborn instinct, and Thawne chuckles softly.

 

“It’s easy to have faith in you, Cisco -- always has been.”

 

Thawne shifts again, Cisco can feel the movement, and his voice, colored with something needy, is even closer than before:

 

“You, Cisco,” Thawne begins, his tone sounding soft and reverent. “You are the beginning of something incredible; proof of something impossible. You’re going to change things -- save lives -- and accomplish feats that will be spoken about for centuries.”

 

Cisco feels himself fluster despite himself, unable to help being touched. “Like what?” he mumbles, his tone already softer; colored by sleep.

 

Thawne chuckles softly, and the mattress dips as if he’s curled right beside him. Cisco can almost feel the heat of him -- but that makes no sense; there’s nothing there…

 

...well, there sort of is.

 

“You’re a hero, Cisco,” Thawne says quietly, and Cisco feels a hand lay across his steadily beating heart.

 

“I know I’ve asked a lot of you,” Thawne continues apologetically. “Too much. Again and Again. But I’ll only have one more request for you, Cisco.

 

“Show me the future.”

 

\--

 

“Where am I?”

 

The dream doesn’t seem to be anything at all. There’s nothing around him but smoke; an endless, unclear space full of an oppressive emptiness. He’s lost; of course he’s lost. How could any of this be so simple?

 

More concerning: he’s alone.

 

“...Thawne?” he calls tentatively. The name still feels strange on his lips; like he should be seeing Eddie’s face instead. For a moment, there’s nothing and Cisco dares a few steps deeper into the cloudy space of the dream. “Thawne?!”

 

The stupid thing is -- the worst thing -- is how his instinct isn’t to be concerned because Thawne is dangerous, and potentially on the loose; he’s concerned because he’s afraid he’s lost him.

 

Again.

 

“Thawne!” Cisco tries again, and he hates how his voice cracks. _Don’t do this don’t leave again don’t--_

 

“I’ve been waiting fifteen years to actually hear my own name,” Thawne replies from behind him, and Cisco’s chest tightens at the sound of his voice. “Even if it’s just the last; you have no idea how soothing that is.”

 

Twisting around, Cisco finds Thawne’s blurry but unmistakable figure waiting for him. Stupid -- of course he’s here...

 

Cisco huffs a breath, placing his hands on his hips as he moves to join him. “Yeah, what isn’t soothing is this.” Cisco nods to the area around him. “This is nothing.”

 

“I noticed,” Thawne observes curtly, his eyes narrowing as he takes in their surroundings -- or lack thereof.

 

He’s upset; it’s not immediately obvious, but Cisco can tell. The shortness in his voice; the sharp edge… he’s disappointed, and it’s only going to get worse. Cisco feels immediately defensive.

 

“I don’t know what you expected me to do!” Cisco blurts. “I told you: I don’t know how this works!”

 

“Easy, Cisco,” Thawne says lightly. “You haven’t even stretched your legs yet.”

 

The kneejerk impulse is to object, but Cisco holds his tongue. He doesn’t really wanted to argue here. Thawne steps closer, and the instinct should be to withdraw, but Cisco holds his ground, letting Thawne’s slender fingers circle his wrist.

 

“It works very simply,” Thawne continues, his voice carrying a certain cadence -- the soft reverence usually reserved for when he talks about Barry. “It’s a part of you: right down to your biology. You, Cisco, can move in the space between worlds…”

 

Meanwhile, Thawne’s fingers are threading into the space between Cisco’s, and Cisco wishes his reaction didn’t feel so juvenile. When else has he ever touched Thawne, in anything more engaged than a handshake? How long has he thought about it?

 

“Barry can move through time -- I can move through time; the speed force does wonders -- however, to us that path is a very straight line: forward or backward. But you…” Thawne smiles and it shows in his voice; pride and admiration all at once. “You’re not bound by time; you’re not bound by anything at all. Every thread of reality is within your grasp; you just need to know how to reach for it.”

 

Which all sounds very spectacular… and that seems to put all the more pressure on Cisco to deliver.

 

Cisco tries to concentrate. He focuses on the feeling of Thawne’s hand against his own and goes from there: he has to send him back… return him to where he belongs and then all of this will be over with.

 

Invasively, a thought nags at him: will it, though? Will it really solve anything? Will he be able to look at Caitlin and Ronnie and lie about this? Much less Barry…

 

Barry. If Barry ever finds out… what would Barry do instead? Not this. But what else is there? Keeping him imprisoned is a mistake; they can’t hold him -- he’ll only be more of a risk. So, what remains is...

 

“Cisco?”

 

Cisco blinks. It only seems to take an instant for their surroundings to suddenly explode in color. It still feels foggy, like the muggy space of a dream, but there’s something here. It’s outdoors and it’s beautiful… clear skies and a bright sun, but it all seems strangely still.

 

“Where are we?” Cisco mutters. None of this seems like the sterile, streamlined image he has in his head of Thawne’s century. It’s all very ordinary, and altogether unremarkable. Distantly, he sees a church spire, and bells ring out.

 

Slowly, Thawne’s fingers fall away from Cisco’s hand, and when Cisco turns to look at him…

 

“Thawne?”

 

The expression on his face is something Cisco has never seen before. He’s stiff, and his eyes seem to widen with a sudden realization.

 

“Hey? What’s going on?” Cisco asks, concern bleeding into his voice despite himself. “Where are we?”

 

“I want to leave.”

 

There’s something almost detached in Thawne’s tone, and it’s icy cold in Cisco’s gut. Thawne isn’t looking at him; his gaze is focused somewhere else… as if he can see something in the glassy dream that Cisco cannot.

 

“Why?” Cisco pushes. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Cisco.” Thawne still won’t look at him -- it’s as if he can’t; as if whatever he’s looking for has him trapped. “You need to wake up.”

 

“Give me an answer!” Cisco insists, and there’s no response. Chills setting into his skin, Cisco turns himself around; if Thawne won’t explain this, maybe he’ll figure it out with whatever Thawne is stuck staring at.

 

“Is that…?”

 

“Barry,” Thawne finishes weakly, his voice muted. “Were you thinking about Barry?”

 

“I…” Guiltily, Cisco doesn’t avert his gaze from the red blur that appears the edge of his vision. “Yeah. It… crossed my mind.”

 

“Oh, Cisco...”

 

Suddenly, it’s not just Barry: it’s both yellow and red lightning at once, and Thawne’s voice reaches a tone that Cisco has never heard before.

 

“Cisco, please.”

 

A hand reaches for his arm and Cisco shakes it off. Anger bleeds into him, sharp enough to make him deny the affection he’s so often craved. “What don’t you want me to see?”

 

Meanwhile he shouldn’t be able to see either of them in the first place. Something in the dream must shift perspective, slow things down, so he can see as Barry chases the Man in Yellow--

 

Barry catches him, and he stops him.

 

“ _Cisco_.”

 

He stops him with hands around his throat, and a sickening snap that resonates through the dream like a shockwave.

 

As Eobard Thawne crumples to the ground, Cisco bolts upright in bed, his heart pounding in his throat.

 

\--

 

“You were thinking about Barry.”

 

It sounds like an accusation, but it’s not spoken sharply enough for that. Thawne’s voice is half muffled, from where he’s sitting on the farthest corner of the bed. The mirror barely catches a glimpse of him, and only from the right angle.

 

Cisco isn’t exactly straining himself to see him.

 

“Yeah,” Cisco admits in a huff. “I was thinking about what he might do to you.”

 

“I suppose you have your answer then,” Thawne says coldly, and Cisco winces.

 

“You were thinking about Barry, and that changes things,” Thawne continues weakly. “It brought us somewhere else.”

 

Placing his hands on his hips, Cisco considers his reply.

 

“And where was that?”

 

Thawne doesn’t immediately answer, and Cisco’s tone grows more bitter. “You recognized it; you knew where that was,” Cisco argues, his voice picking up speed. “You knew what was going to happen! You’ve seen it before!”

 

Thawne doesn’t argue. He stays where he is: out of sight and clearly miserable.

 

It makes Cisco’s chest tighten.

 

“You hypocrite.”

 

Once the first words come out, it seems to break open the dam. Cisco gestures with his hands, and words fall from his lips. “You -- you _hypocrite_! You _hate_ Barry -- you say you do! And is it because of this? Is it because you know about this?” Cisco snaps, finding himself shaky. “Because you -- you go on about you and me! About what you did or didn’t do -- and it’s the exact same thing!”

 

Cisco looks at his hands, finding them trembling even as he clenches them into fists. They look foreign to him now: hands that can touch universes; hands that could be wrapped around someone’s throat.

 

“Do you think I hate you?” he asks quietly. “Because I don’t.”

 

Humorlessly, he laughs. “Maybe I should,” he adds weakly. “Maybe you’ve got the right idea -- but I don’t… I can’t.”

 

Cisco forces himself to shrug, as if to dismiss the intensity of what he says. “Do you know what I last thing I said to you was?” he asks quietly. “Before you killed me?”

 

Thawne says nothing; he barely even moves, and Cisco can’t stop himself from speaking. “I offered to help you,” Cisco admits. “After you just told me that everything I knew about you was a lie, I still wanted to help.”

 

Letting out a shaky breath, Cisco rubs his hand against his jaw. “And I still do,” he says defeatedly. “I want to be able to give you what you want.”

 

Cisco presses his lips together, his skin feeling hot, and he drops himself back onto the edge of the bed. “Because… I don’t know,” he mutters. “One of us deserves that.”

 

Looking in the mirror feels like too much to risk -- either seeing Thawne, or seeing himself, embarrassingly close to tears, feels equally overwhelming. Cisco bows his head, resting his forearms on his thighs and letting his fingers thread loosely together. He isn’t sure how much time passes before he feels the mattress shift, and he tenses up on instinct.

 

“Do you know why I hired you, Cisco?” Thawne asks quietly, and Cisco lets out the breath he’d been holding in his chest.

 

“We’ve had this conversation already,” Cisco reminds him in an undertone.

 

“Mh, but not entirely,” Thawne replies, and his voice is closer now. “I left out something important.”

 

Cisco waits and he feels the bed move as Thawne rearranges himself. “I hired you because you’re brilliant; because of your potential and your heart -- that is the truth,” he continues. “But, also: I was aware that in order to ensure my future, Barry Allen had to be protected by S. T. A. R. Labs, and I feared, unfortunately, given my disposition, Barry would not find himself welcome there.”

 

Cisco tightens his hands together. Of course. The Flash and the Reverse-Flash were enemies; Thawne had no reason to anticipate that Barry would grow up admiring him, or befriend him under the guise of another person. He would have anticipated conflict; resistance…

 

“I needed someone Barry would feel comfortable with; someone who would become his friend; who would be warm when I was not,” Thawne explains. “Caitlin can be withdrawn; Hartley… well.” Another tsking sound comes from Thawne’s lips. Hartley clearly goes without saying. “...and I am very aware of my own failings. But, if Barry felt a kinship with someone, someone who became dear to him, it would make it difficult for him to leave -- even if he and I were to argue, or disagree.

 

“However,” Thawne sighs quietly. “That didn’t happen entirely as I planned.”

 

Cisco makes an affirmative sound. “Because you didn’t need to,” Cisco concludes. “Barry liked you before he even met you.”

 

“Yes,” Thawne replies. “...and no.”

 

What is that supposed to mean? Cisco’s brows tighten and at last he lifts his head. Thawne is sitting behind him, still visible in the mirror, and he’s looking at his own hands. Thawne smiles, and it’s not a familiar expression. It’s disbelieving somehow; as if he’s still shocked by his own admission.

 

“I’m the one who was taken in by you,” Thawne tells him. “Who found it difficult to imagine leaving you behind.”

 

It’s almost too much.

 

Cisco’s chest tightens, and his hands clench together. What is he supposed to say to that? He knows it’s not a lie, and that’s the worst part of it. It would be easier if it was… if everything had been a ruse and Cisco had never meant anything at all. It would be miserable, but it would be better, because then Cisco would be able to scorn him with no hesitation.

 

But he couldn’t. He can’t. Because it isn’t that simple.

 

Thawne reaches for him, and Cisco can feel it. Slender fingers brush through his hair, and the touch connects. His hair is brushed forward over his shoulder, and Thawne shuffles closer on his knees.

 

“But you’re going to,” Cisco says miserably, and he feels childish for it. “You’re going to leave.”

 

“Yes.” Thawne doesn’t refute it, but his touch lingers, and Cisco feels the tips of his fingers tracing the sensitive skin beneath his ear. It’s strange and hard for Cisco to decipher -- Thawne has never been particularly demonstrative before, then again, he had never known Wells to smile the way Thawne does either.

 

“You should come with me,” Thawne suggests suddenly, and Cisco’s eyes widen as his posture suddenly straightens.

 

“... what? Where?” he asks impulsively, and a second later the realization clicks. “What?! No. No! That isn’t…”

 

“Possible? Potentially,” Thawne muses, as if it’s the easiest thing. There’s an edge to his voice, a quickness when he speaks, that betrays a certain sort of desperation. “Altering the future is much less tricky than altering the past, you realize; we alter it every day, with every choice we make. Your absence will be felt in this timeline, surely, but...”

 

Thawne trails off, and Cisco makes a disbelieving sound, his lips turning up despite himself, and he covers the expression with his hand. He waits several seconds, and he meets Thawne’s gaze through the mirror. “Are you serious right now?” he asks outright.

 

“Completely,” Thawne replies, with such immediacy that makes Cisco’s chest ache.

 

Cisco laughs, and it’s a humorless thing, and he feels utterly at a loss. Thawne is being uncharacteristically whimsical. All his talk, all of his plans and precaution, then suddenly he’s all right with throwing that away? For this? For him? It feels too good to be believed.

 

Does he actually want Cisco that badly?

 

Thawne’s touch wanders, and invisible pressure cups against his cheek. “Cisco,” Thawne says softly, entreating him to raise his head from where it hangs so defeatedly towards his chest.

 

On instinct, Cisco turns his head, but there’s nothing there. There’s pressure from where he touches him, and his voice is right next to his ear...

 

“I’m sorry, Cisco,” Thawne tells him, and he’s suddenly so close.

 

It’s a wonder how Cisco actually aims correctly. He tries to touch something he can’t see, grabbing vague fistfuls of Thawne’s clothes, and he leans into him all at once. Over-eager and too sudden, he fully expects himself to miss: to end up connecting somewhere on Thawne’s chin or too high on his nose -- but by some small miracle, it’s lips beneath his own instead.

 

On sheer nerves, Cisco expects rejection. Being this bold is unlike him, to say the least, but it’s too much for him to contain. This has been sitting beneath the surface of his skin for so long, steady and aching, and even the worst kind of betrayal couldn’t smother the intensity of it. Now Thawne is so close…

 

Thawne makes a muffled sound, and its tone is hard to place, but he isn’t shoving Cisco away by any means, so he’ll take it as positive. Fingers slowly curl around his forearms, anchoring him, and Cisco feels his heartbeat skip. He’s wanted this; he’s wanted this for so long...

 

...and yet, what gets in the way is the last thing he expects.

 

Opening eyes while kissing is pretty much considered a faux pas in the first place... but it’s even worse when there’s nothing there to look at. Cisco can’t help himself; he peeks and he regrets it. He has hands on his arms, feels lips parting under his own, but he sees nothing but empty air.

 

And it’s entirely too freaky.

 

“Okay -- no -- stop,” Cisco blurts suddenly, leaning back to break the contact of the kiss. “I mean -- no. Yes. Very yes. And don’t really stop. Please. Um. I just. I need to. Oh boy.”

 

“Cisco,” Thawne sighs, and it’s somehow needy and chastising at the same time. “It’s okay…” Cisco feels his forehead bump against his own, close enough to kiss again, but Cisco’s nerves keep him back, and he jerks away before Thawne can close the gap.

 

“It’s just really weird!” Cisco insists defensively. “Okay?! I’m not really into… you know! Being Demi Moore to your Patrick Swayze.”

 

Thawne is quiet and Cisco can practically imagine the look he’s getting. “ _Ghost_? No? Yeah. We’re not watching that,” he quickly adds, blathering and self deprecating. “Ever. Forget it. Um. Sorry. This isn’t very hot, is it? ... is it?”

 

Thawne clucks his tongue. “Persistently modest,” is a murmur against his mouth, and Cisco’s stomach flutters.

 

Oh boy.

 

“Yeah. Okay. Just. Let me…”

 

Apart from an affirmative humming sound, Thawne keeps his mouth shut. Which Cisco is grateful for. Even the idle feeling of Thawne rubbing his thumbs on Cisco’s forearms is distracting enough; Cisco doubts he could deal with hearing Thawne talk on top of it.

 

Concentrate.

 

Cisco lets his hands slowly lift. Thawne is next to him; he doesn’t need the mirror to know that. He can feel him when he reaches out: warm, real, responsive. He can hear him breathing: a shortening rhythm, shallow and hot. He can taste him on his tongue: sharp, sterile, the barest aftertaste of the junk Cisco brought him to eat through the mirror.

 

He’s here. He just needs to…

 

His hands trace the shape of his jaw, slipping up over his ears to bury briefly into his hair -- then release again. His palms slide downward, sweeping over his neck… and as Thawne noticeably stiffens, Cisco lingers there, feeling his pulse rapidly thud. Of course, this would give him pause; this is…

 

Cisco lets it pass, raising his hand up again to cup his face. Frustration threatens to bleed into him, and he catches his lower lip beneath his teeth.

 

 _I want you here_ , becomes a desperate little mantra in his mind; the yearning in his chest given voice. _I want you here; I want you…_

 

His fingers trace and at the same time they pull. Not to say he grabs Thawne and yanks -- no, that isn’t right, but he’s pulling all the same; he’s dragging him out from the dark and he doesn’t even know how, but he can’t stop now. Cisco can’t name what it is. It’s instinct, maybe, but that seems too vaguely defined. He reaches for Thawne, and what he touches is something deeper.

 

Cisco reaches and he touches a whole other world. He bridges the gap between them, with nothing but his fingertips and his beating heart, and he takes Thawne with him.

 

As his hands move, he seems to paint Thawne into being. His hands follow the outline of his chest, his arms and legs, and they leave an actual image in their wake. Slowly, Thawne fades into something solid: and Cisco can see it when he smiles.

 

“Cisco.” There’s a laugh to his voice; mirthful rather than mocking, and seeming sincerely awed. “Look at you…”

 

That should be Cisco’s line. He’s the one stuck staring at Thawne, as he comes into being. His thumb presses to the corner of his Cheshire grin, as it creeps higher up on his cheeks to expose too much teeth.

 

“See?” Cisco intends to be playful about it, but his voice is a little too breathless. “Figured that one out all by myself.”

 

Thawne laughs again, and it makes Cisco’s chest flutter -- eagerly now, instead of something dreadful. “Yes, you did,” he says delightedly, moving very real fingers to frame Cisco’s face.

 

Cisco can’t help himself. Thawne is with him: solid and smiling and very real -- and above all, receptive when Cisco touches him: moaning quietly when Cisco grabs him for another kiss.

 

He’s afraid of seeming overeager. Waiting so long for something takes its toll, and delaying even by seconds seems cruel now. He’s groaning faintly against Thawne’s mouth, and what he gets in response is a firm grip on his shirt, dragging him along as Thawne lays back against the mattress.

 

Oh.

 

So, maybe there’s enough eagerness to go around, in that case.

 

Sweeping his hair out of the way, Cisco carefully braces his hands on the bed. Thawne keeps him close, barely breaking the contact of the kiss as he settles onto his back. There’s just a bit of squirming, and a half mumbled apology on Cisco’s part as he fixes his position. He’s too aware of himself, too concerned about where exactly he should put his hands. Cisco shivers, letting a weak sound escape him as Thawne’s tongue traces the roof of his mouth. Breaking the kiss is the last thing he wants, but Cisco feels dizzy and he has to speak.

 

“Do you want--” Cisco starts and stops, suddenly feeling juvenile. “I mean. Do you…”

 

Cisco trails off, feeling very weak and very dizzy, and Thawne thankfully takes pity on him. “Yes,” he replies coyly, just slightly taunting. Long, steady legs lift and wrap around Cisco’s hips, keeping him in place. “Yes, I do.”

 

\--

 

It’s the sound of Thawne moving that stirs Cisco again. He didn’t really fall asleep -- more like dozed, but it’s enough time for Thawne to be active in his absence.

 

There is something occupying his hands that Cisco can’t quite make out from where he’s sitting. But, he’s changed his clothes -- not that there is much difference, given how his entire wardrobe is one shade -- and he’s moving around the room with a strange sort of enthusiasm. Even the days before the accident, when Cisco knew him to be eager and confident about his work, Harrison Wells never seemed to burst with the same energy as Eobard Thawne.

 

Clearly feeling eyes on him, Thawne makes a glance over his shoulder. “Did I wake you?” he asks, and he smiles faintly when Cisco shrugs. “I apologize; I just thought we should get ready.”

 

Right. We.

 

“Yeah,” Cisco mumbles, rubbing his hand over his face tiredly. “That makes sense.”

 

Maybe -- hopefully -- Thawne will take his tone as sleepy rather than hesitant. He sits up in bed, and he can finally see what Thawne is doing with his hands.

 

Cisco recognizes the now empty picture frame: too simple and ordinary to rightfully belong among all the finery of Thawne’s manor. That’s because it was given, rather than placed with deliberate intention, and inside it was a photograph taken due to Cisco’s eager insistence.

 

His stomach does an uneasy drop, and the feeling is encouraged when Thawne tucks the photo into his jacket pocket and smiles at him.

 

“Also,” Thawne says, nodding towards the bedside table. “That’s for Barry.”

 

Cisco follows his gesture, and on instinct he reaches out, touching the small thumb drive that has been left there. “There’s a video with a full confession,” Thawne explains, idly adjusting his clothes. “Along with guidelines on how to retrieve the case evidence that I…” Thawne pauses as if considering his phrasing “...relieved Joe of; plus a few extra convincing elements, which combined altogether will clear Henry Allen of any charges held against him.”

 

Cisco finds himself quiet. He isn’t sure what to say, exactly, but the tactic works: if Barry doesn’t hear from Cisco for more than a day, he’ll come looking, and he knows the last place he was going was the manor. He’ll come looking here, and he’ll find this -- and only this.

 

Cisco catches his lip beneath his teeth, and Thawne’s voice comes out softer than he expects.

 

“Cisco,” he says quietly. “I know this is difficult--”

 

“It’s okay,” Cisco interrupts before he can finish. “We should probably get going. You know. While I’m still sleepy.”

 

A smile tugs at the corner of Thawne’s mouth. It’s sad somehow, and maybe catching on, but if so, it doesn’t stall his assent when Cisco tentatively reaches out for him. Cisco isn’t entirely sure about the gesture; maybe it seems a little too overly affectionate, but Thawne doesn’t even blink about it. Nodding, he settles back next to Cisco, more receptive to Cisco’s open arms then he anticipates.

 

It’s a nice feeling -- Cisco feels it hover warmly in his chest and he tightens his jaw.

 

“You’re fretting,” Thawne observes, and Cisco stiffens.

 

“Is it that obvious?” Cisco asks shamefully. One hand lifts, and Thawne taps his fingertip against Cisco’s jaw.

 

“You can tell me,” Thawne invites, sidling closer. “I am aware that I’m asking quite a lot of you.”

 

A humorless chuckle edges out with Cisco’s next exhale. “Just a bit,” he says dryly, and Thawne squeezes an arm around his middle.

 

Cisco smiles weakly. It’s so easy, and that’s the hardest thing.

 

“Let’s just go, okay?” Cisco says instead. “I’m not really a fan of saying goodbye.”

 

Thawne makes an affirmative sound, and his fingertips idly trace up and down Cisco’s side. “You’ll like it,” he promises, trying to soothe without saying the exact words. “I can't wait to see what you accomplish with so much more at your fingertips. You’ll fit right in.”

 

The worst part is how he’s probably right.

 

“You won’t,” Cisco points out, not so subtly diverting their topic. “You look completely different; no one is going to recognize you.”

 

There isn’t an answer right away. Thawne makes a thoughtful hum; it’s obviously not something he never considered before. Yet…

 

“Good thing I have your company,” Thawne counters simply, and Cisco feels his shoulders slump.

 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, letting his eyes drift shut. “Good thing.”

 

\--

 

Cisco opens his eyes and what he sees--

 

It’s not what he anticipates. Thankfully they’re not dropped into the middle of a busy street -- which means thanking himself, he supposes, and his unconscious forethought. It’s the edge of a big city: all bright lights in a dark sky. There’s a hum to it, even at a distance, that prickles up Cisco’s spine and settles at the base of his skull.

 

Thawne’s hands slide away from him, clasping together at his middle as if to contain himself. He’s smiling again, in a way Cisco has never seen before: the kind of happiness that’s so sharp it turns back around into something sad.

 

“Cisco,” he sighs gratefully. “It’s amazing, isn’t it?”

 

“Yeah,” Cisco agrees faintly. But…

 

But he can’t see the stars. The future is right in front of him -- cars without wheels and a fluorescent city -- and all he can focus on is how there’s no stars.

 

It sticks with him somehow: hollow and lifeless, even as the entire city literally thrums with energy. Dark skies; bright lights; not a single glimpse of green.

 

Thawne turns back to him, his hand circling Cisco’s wrist. “This is only the beginning,” he assures him, taking his first steps towards the imposing cityscape in front of them. “Once we get closer, I can show you--”

 

Cisco plants his feet, heels firmly pressing in, and Thawne jerks rather than taking another step.

 

Suddenly, Thawne is very still, slowly turning back towards him, and Cisco clenches his jaw. “Cisco?” he begins tentatively, and he can’t find his voice.

 

Gradually, one by one, Thawne’s fingers uncurl their grip on Cisco’s arm, and his touch falls away.

 

“You’re not coming,” Thawne concludes slowly. “Are you?” He smiles, and it’s sick again, with none of the sweet joy that colored his face before. “You were never going to.”

 

Cisco works his throat through a tight swallow. “I told you,” he reminds quietly. “I already have my family; my friends… and you hurt them. All of them.”

 

Thawne laughs, icy and familiar, one hand raising to his temple, and Cisco forces his voice to persist. “This was the best way,” he explains, his tone wavering but reliable. “You’re too strong for us to imprison you. If you’re locked up, you’ll escape; you’ll hurt more people. This way… you’re gone, and Barry’s dad goes free.”

 

Thawne’s jaw works, a tight nod coming with a very slow smile. There’s an odd tension to his expression, and Cisco wonders if he’s ever felt so lied to before -- if he’s ever felt so sincerely deceived.

 

It should feel bitterly satisfying, but instead it makes his stomach drop.

 

“That’s very clever,” Thawne praises, but his voice is too empty. “Was that your plan from the start?”

 

“No,” Cisco admits against his better judgment. “No, it wasn’t. I wanted--”

 

Cutting himself short, Cisco crosses his arms across his chest. His eyes sting, and blinking makes it worse, rather than better.

 

“So did I,” Thawne replies, answering what Cisco leaves unfinished. He lifts his hand, retrieving the photograph in his jacket pocket, and Cisco fights a wince.

 

"No prison," Thawne affirms, looking at the picture, rather than at Cisco. "But this is my punishment, isn't it?"

 

It isn’t explicitly said, but the implication is there: being betrayed. Or, maybe, even more coldly: being alone.

 

Cisco says nothing; he isn’t sure what to do and words won’t come. When Thawne takes a step forward, Cisco immediately knows what he intends, and he cuts him short.

 

“No,” he says, more sharply than he intends, and Thawne looks actually stung. So, he repeats, softer: “No. I won’t take it from you.”

 

For a moment, Thawne looks ready to argue, but he concedes without saying a word. The photograph is tucked back into his coat, with hands so clearly careful and fond that it makes Cisco’s chest ache.

 

“I hope you’re happy,” Cisco says sincerely, nodding towards the city in the distance. “With all of this.”

 

A grin pulls at the corner of Thawne’s mouth, and he nods slowly. This time, when he steps closer, Cisco doesn’t stop him.

 

“You’re delaying,” Thawne observes, and he cups Cisco’s face in his hand. “I thought you weren’t fond of goodbyes.

 

His thumb rubs across his cheek, wiping away wet streaks, and he leans in close again.

 

“It’s time to wake up,” he tells him, and like some inverse of a story book, Thawne kisses him.

 

“Goodbye, Cisco.”

 

\--

 

He’s alone again.

 

Not completely. Not in a way that leaves him helpless. He has Barry, Caitlin, Ronnie, and Joe -- his family at home, and his family away from home. What he is missing, however, is any voices in his dreams, or any static across his phone line.

 

Which should be relieving but instead it feels hollow. It doesn’t feel like exorcising a ghost that’s been haunting him; it feels like leaving something behind.

 

He gives Barry the thumb drive; tells him that he found it in the manor. It’s only half of a lie, and there’s a cruel thought that Thawne might be proud of him for twisting truths. That only makes him feel worse when Barry looks happy enough to kiss him. After leaving quick copies on the Labs’ computers, Barry rushes off to police department. Once everything is in motion, Cisco feels oddly reassured. ...until the first text he gets in response is not what he expects. Instead of the cheerful cry of Henry Allen’s freedom, he gets a question.

 

_Did you watch your file?_

 

It takes Cisco a moment to catch Barry’s meaning and a sick feeling gets in his gut. He should have checked the drive himself, but he got carried away.

 

He drops himself in front of the computer, and he opens the folder Barry left. There’s more files than he anticipates… and they’re very simply named: Barry; Caitlin; Ronnie; Joe.

 

_Cisco._

 

Cisco wavers slightly, letting the mouse hover. His throat feels tight, his mouth dry, but he forces himself to click -- and for all the nerve it took to make that gesture, it doesn’t even take him all the way.

 

He needs a password.

 

Cisco slumps in the computer chair, idly rolling it side to side. How is he supposed to know? Thawne could have picked literally anything.

 

He tries some obvious guesses: movies that they watched together, significant dates, and even inside jokes -- but none of them work. Rubbing tiredly at his face, Cisco groans.

 

_What is it? How do you expect me to guess? Who do you think I am?_

 

The thought lingers, pressing with more literal emphasis than Cisco initially intends.

 

_You’re a hero._

 

Cisco hesitates, his fingertips hovering above his keyboard, then he makes his entry.

 

_It’s your best work yet._

 

“Hello, Cisco.”

 

The password unlocks a video recording and it’s so sudden that Cisco’s pulse seems to skip. Thawne is in the manor still, looking all too familiar; he had to have taken this while Cisco dozed in the next room -- Cisco was clearly more deeply asleep than he believed himself to be.

 

Also, Thawne was clearly not so restrained by those forcefield he put in place.

 

“I am not actually sure whether or not you’ll be seeing this,” Thawne begins. He scoffs somewhat, running long fingers back through the hair Cisco left tousled with needy touches. “As for the moment, you seem set on the future. Will that change?” His mouth forms an exaggerated frown. “Maybe. Maybe not. In case of the latter… well, then this file will sit untouched until perhaps someone like Miss Smoak finds the need to disregard privacy and pry into it. For the former...”

 

Thawne’s hand slides from his hair, resting at the base of his neck, and Cisco wishes he could shake the association.

 

“Any pain you suffered because of me, was not my intention,” he begins slowly, his arm falling away to hang down at his side. “As apologies go, that is rather blanketed, and I don’t believe I will disrespect you by begging for forgiveness that I have not earned. However…”

 

Thawne takes a deliberate inhale, his chest rising and falling, and meanwhile Cisco’s breath seems stalled.

 

“I will take this time to reassure you. I know you’re scared, but you have no reason to be. You will grow into yourself,” he tells him firmly. “You, Cisco, can walk across worlds. You can touch a whole other reality with your fingertips. The things you’ll see, and the things you will do, are beyond measure. I only wish I could be there with you, but I am aware that I have rightfully lost that privilege.”

 

Thawne’s mouth quirks, as if he isn’t sure what expression to convey. “I am not known as a very generous person. Everything I have given you: the Labs, the manor, an inheritance and a history… out of all of it, this is my greatest gift to you: this power that woke up under your skin; your great vision and your heart bleeding down into your biology.”

 

Thawne tilts his head back, as if there will be an answer written on the ceiling above him, and he must find something, because his lips form another grin. “Perhaps it’s selfish,” he says simply. “Wanting you to remember it was me who did this for you; for you to feel an echo of me in every motion you make. It isn’t vanity or pride, trying to take credit for what accomplishments you’ll make; nothing like that. It’s more...”

 

Thawne smiles. It’s different than before: it finally looks like it fits on his face, soft and sincere. “Maybe, as you’re reaching through the universe, you’ll find a version of me that you do want to stay with,” he continues, grimly self deprecating. “In fact, that’s why this isn’t goodbye -- in a certain way. Over the countless strands of time, there is a world where being here with me is your choice, and you are happy with it. If you ever want to see it, that is within your power.”

 

As if disturbed by some sound, Thawne suddenly glances aside. The source can’t be anything but Cisco himself, stirring in his bed, and Cisco suddenly hates his past self for not sleeping more soundly.

 

“I think I woke you,” Thawne explains, and Cisco’s chest twists. “So I’ll be brief.”

 

 _No. Don’t._ Cisco reaches out despite himself. His fingers lay against the screen, and there’s none of the humming energy he felt before. Nothing reaching back. _Don’t…_

 

“I’m erased from existence. Except for what you carry in you. You keep me alive -- and, I am aware you may believe I did all of this simply to guarantee my way home, and that is not the case.” Thawne smiles. “I wanted you to be with me because I love you; that is entirely the truth.”

 

Cisco’s fingers curl, and his hand forms a fist against the screen.

 

_I never told you. I never said it back. I should have but I never--_

 

“Goodbye, Cisco.”

 

The video cuts out, and Cisco is alone again.

 

He sits, slumping forward in his chair, and he finds himself unwilling to move. He should have said something while he could. He should have put his foot down. He should have… He didn’t even get to say goodbye, much less say that he--

 

It’s a cycle of pointless thoughts, and it doesn’t change anything; it doesn’t solve what’s bothering him. Frankly, nothing will. This isn’t something that can be helped; it’s something he’ll just have to accept.

 

One way or another.

 

In the quiet space of the Lab, the sound of his phone buzzing against the desk is sudden and sharp. Cisco jumps far too much for something so small, too lost in his own head to react rationally. Hurriedly, he snatches it up. He never texted Barry back; he must be worried--

 

But it isn’t Barry’s number.

 

Cisco swipes to answer, raises the phone to his ear, and his stomach drops as the corners of his lips turn up.

 


End file.
